His Black Box
by LadyJade87
Summary: Everyone always thought Sherlock was a sociopath. Because that's what he always told them. Because that's what he wanted them to believe. Because that's what he needed them to believe. Warnings: Explicit self-harm, drug abuse, endless angst, and eventually lots of delicious, explicit Johnlock
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I own nothing here, duh. Severe adult content/explicit self-harm. Don't like, don't read, but if you do, please R&R :)**

Everyone always thought Sherlock was a sociopath. Because that's what he always told them. Because that's what he wanted them to believe. Because that's what he needed them to believe.

Only Mycroft knew how bad it truly got sometimes, and that's only because of the few times he chanced upon Sherlock on what he now referred to as a "danger night". And that was part of the reason Sherlock couldn't stand him so very much–he knew some of Sherlock's deepest secrets, and he could exposed them whenever he wanted for whatever reason he wanted, whether it be blackmailing him into doing his bidding or simply reminding Sherlock of the control he had over him. Which, to Sherlock, was merely another reason to avoid doing anything for Mycroft at any and all costs. Especially now that John was in his life. His best friend. His only friend. He refused to let Mycroft ruin that for his own vindictive, manipulative reasons.

Sherlock could never let John know–he didn't think he could bear it if John ever found out, and particularly if he found out the same why Mycroft did. He didn't think he would ever be able to bear the anger, the disappointment, the sadness, the disgust, and goddamn it, not the pity. Never the pity. Not from John, of all fucking people.

And yet, even with the soul deep terror of John finding out, it never stopped him. Hell, sometimes it only encouraged it, that shame and embarrassment he felt whenever he thought of what his flatmate would say should he ever find out.

But still, on the days when his head wouldn't stop, in its endless deducing and perceiving, and his chest felt like he would never breathe again with the weight of everything he knew–everything little thing he saw and felt–he would still lock himself in his room, in his bathroom, with his little illicit black box, and indulge in so many things he knew would destroy him in the end. So many things that already were.

It started in middle school, like with most wayward souls, when Sherlock, and all his peers, truly started to realize just how different, how extraordinary, he was, even though no one else, including Sherlock, really saw it that way.

While he had always been smart, observant, his entire life, middle school was the first time he really started deducing, starting seeing, knowing, all the little details of his classmates' lives. How the main bully, Jameson, was abused at home by his drunk father while his mother slept her way through the apartment complex, which was why he never had any money of his own and so readily went after Sherlock's abundance of it that his mother always left to the nanny to give him. And then how pointing out such things led to a broken nose, bruised ribs, and a quick trip to lonely lunches for the rest of the year.

And that's when school, a place of learning that he had loved, became an absolute hell. Because he scared everyone away. Because he was a freak. A friendless loser that everyone hated. Even his brother refused to play with him growing up, or "hang out" as they started to get older. And it didn't help that his father worked nonstop and his mother was busy either faking her way through luncheons and social functions or in her room, tranquilized out of this realm.

So, it's really not too much of a surprise when he turned to books, and began learning as much as he could about everything he possibly could, as far away from school as he could possibly get. He had even started reading fiction, mysteries, horror, cheesy romances he knicked from his mom's bookcase that were far too adult for most kids his age, books on science and philosophy, history texts, and anything else he could find.

Which is where he first came across the concept. Self-harm. He already knew plenty on drugs from his mother and the overheard conversations of his peers. But self-harm, cutting, burning, picking…that was…new to him.

And then he began finding it more and more in the novels he read. And he began to see the appeal more and more. But he never actually tried it; he was scared to, scared he'd go too deep or do some really horrible damage or something. That was until he and Mycroft got into a fight. After he had just had a fight with mum that morning. Followed by the nanny swearing under her breath about how much of a "complete fucking circus freak" Sherlock was. And then another trip to the Dean's office after correct his teacher once again and earning even more frightened and disgusted looks from his classmates.

So yeah, when he got home and went out to hide somewhere in the expansive garden of the expansive Holmes estate with a good book, he didn't really want to deal with people, especially not his indifferent, newly asshole-certified teenage brother.

But Mycroft had had a bad day too, and coming home to find that some of his new gadgets–birthday presents, actually– had become the latest in his genius little brother's experiment binge, he was furious and out to pick a fight with someone. With Sherlock, specifically.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU]" Mycroft screamed as he finally found Sherlock, curled up under a willow tree with his latest book, after having to hunt for him for a good twenty minutes after finding his decimated presents.

"What?" Sherlock asked, startled out of his literary reverie, and already taking on a quiet, submissive tone. He just wanted to go back to his book, forget the world for a while. Have the world just forget him for a while, just leave him alone. But the world apparently wasn't in a wish-granting mood.

"MY FUCKING PRESENTS, YOU FREAK! I mean, seriously, do you have to ruin _everything_ you touch? Do you do it on purpose or is it just another freakish talent you possess?" Mycroft snarled, yanking Sherlock's book from his protective grasp and hurling it away from them and into a nearby puddle.

"I…I was just curious–I had read about the possibilities of long distance communication without the use of radio waves and I just needed a–" Sherlock's shy whisper was cut off quickly though.

"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? My presents, my _fucking birthday presents_, and you _**ruined**_ all of them! You can't just wait til your own goddamn birthday and destroy your own fucking shit? You just have to ruin mine? Honestly though, I mean seriously, tell me, do you try to be this much of an irritating, impossible, freakish, little chit or does it really come naturally to you? And if the latter, who do you think you get it from, hmm? Mum in her usual comatose state or dad who's not even here to the point where he's probably not even own father anyway? But let me guess, _you've already deduced all of that_, haven't you?" Mycroft had stooped down and was face to face with a shaking, silently crying Sherlock, and holding him by the collar of his school uniform's shirt.

"I'm sorry, I…I won't touch your stuff, ever again, I promise, I'm sorry, I–" Mycroft struck Sherlock across the cheek, the sound echoing among the surrounding trees.

"You're bloody well right you won't! You're never to touch my things ever again, understand? Good." With that, Mycroft shoved Sherlock away from him and inadvertedly, his head into the tree he had just been reading against. Before he could began to care about his brother's current state, Mycroft swiftly turned and walked back up to the house, leaving a shocked and hurt Sherlock behind.

Sherlock crawled over to his book where it had fallen, ruined, with tears streaming down his face as he slowly picked up his beloved book. Clutching it to his chest, Sherlock went back to his previous spot, and began to sob uncontrollably, already knowing that no one would hear because no one else would care or be bothered enough to come find him again.

After a while, once Sherlock had calmed down to mild hiccups and most of the tears had dried or been wiped away, he stood slowly and unsteady on his legs, as if Mycroft had struck those too instead of just his face, and made his way back to the house and up to his own room.

Fearing yet another confrontation, he locked the door so no one could get in (he changed out the lock so that only he had a key) and made his way to his bed. Once he sank into its welcoming depths and wrapped himself snuggly in his warm comforter, he began to think. And remember all those things he read, the things that always seemed like they'd be too much for him. And they started seeming closer and closer–easier, even.

As his mind began to close around the idea, he rose from his bed and made his way into the adjoining bathroom. Even though he was still in middle school, the bathroom was as fully stocked as any male bathroom. So Sherlock had no trouble finding a shaving set in one of the bottom drawers.

With shaky, yet determined hands, he pulled out the elegant black box that would eventually come to represent so much darkness in his life. He undid the latch to exposed a expensive, old-fashioned shaving set his father had absently gotten him and Mycroft when they had each turned thirteen, even though neither would had use for years later. Or, at least, not the intended use.

Sherlock brushed his mop of dark, curly hair out of his eyes as he pulled out one of the handled razors. He made quick work of the mechanisms and freed the individual razor blades. They were easier to work with. At least, that's what he told himself as he finally began to hesitate. He gently rested the blade against the soft skin of his forearm and paused. He knew the basics: shallow cuts, quick with just enough pressure, make sure everything's clean, clean and bandage afterwards, avoid major veins and too many at once, etc… but facing it all in reality was ever so different than reading about it in all the various novels.

But then he began to think back on the events of the day, then on his life in general.

_None of them care, they've made that much clear. Even my goddamn family hates me. Mum doesn't give two shits about me. Father gives even less. And Mycroft out-right hates me now. He's right; I am a freak. Just like Ms. Owens said this morning. Just like everyone always says at school. So why bother? Not like anyone would care, anyway. And maybe it'll actually help, like it does for some of the people in the books. Maybe. But even if it doesn't, just another thing I fail at, another reason to hate myself along with everyone else. _The thoughts tore through Sherlock's mind in rapid fire, becoming more and more self-loathing until his shoulders were wracked with sobs once more.

Before he had time to hesitate again, he repositioned the blade, pushed down, and quickly pulled it across the skin of his forearm.

He gasped at the pain. At first. But as the blood began to bubble up and drip down his arm onto the floor, he began to relish in it. Because it was like someone had turned this little pressure valve in his head and had released some of the unending pain from deep inside. But only just a little. So he quickly did it again, sliding the blade a few centimeters below the first. And again, the pain quickly turned to relief as the blood from that cut joined onto the mini stream of the other, dripping onto the floor as it began to coagulate there.

But for Sherlock, it was only the beginning, as he continued to slide the blade across his forearm, taking his time to savor each one, and letting the endorphins start to take the pain from one cut away before starting the next.

For the first time in his meager life, his was the one in control of the pain, not someone else.

But the pain never really stopped coming, even as a grown man, sitting beside his bed at 221B Baker Street with John only just downstairs. Yet even as a grown man, he was still a freak to everyone around him. Always unwanted, and always having that made oh so clear to him. Actually, John was one of only a few people that didn't absolutely despise his presence, let alone continued company. But even John couldn't stop the ever-flowing torrent of Sherlock's mind, mostly because he could never possibly understand just how much of the genius's mind was constantly drowning and how little of his mind was ever present in reality of their cases or work.

No, as Sherlock sat beside his bed in the middle of a random afternoon with his lovely, damning, elegant, black box, there was truly very little of his mind that _wasn't_ drowning. Which is why, as he sat there shirtless and crying, cleaning the dried blood from some of his razor blades, he didn't really care where John was.

Because John wasn't _there_, with him, helping him, holding him–_**anything**_.

But then again, as Sherlock slid the blade across part of his abdomen, opening up a new wound below the previous ones that were still so fresh as to barely even had a fully formed scab covering them yet– he didn't really ever want John to ever see him like this or anything remotely close. Sherlock would do anything possible to prevent that from ever happening.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Holy crap! I already have people following me. I feel special :3 Anyway, while this was a fairly quick update (I think) they won't be coming nearly as quickly as the story and my own life progress; the plot bunnies are currently quite maddening and then there's the fact I start college in two weeks... So yeah, while there may be daily-ish updates for a bit, please don't expect it to last or get mad at me when I do start slowing down a bit with updating. I do plan on trying for regular, weekly updates until the story's finished but I sadly don't know how the future shall pan out.**

** So, R&R as per usual and I do hope you enjoy.**

**Oh, and Warnings: Drug use! Yay for Cocaine! (but not really...)**

The next morning, after having been awake all night playing his violin into the pre-dawn hours, Sherlock was making some tea and waiting for John to come down the stairs and join him. Lestrade had sent Sherlock a text earlier that morning about a string of crimes the Yard was having trouble with, unsurprisingly. Sherlock had looked into some of the crimes on his own and felt that it wouldn't take more than an hour or two to not only solve the case but also have it wrapped up–at least on his and John's part. Lestrade and the rest of the Yard could handle all of the tedious paperwork, even if they couldn't manage to do much else on their own.

The kettle had just begun to whistle when a still sleep-laden John made his appearance in the kitchen. He was wearing just his sweatpants and dressing gown, showing off his smooth, and still well defined, torso. The scar from the bullet wound was barely perceivable as the dressing gown moved ever so, revealing it in the pale sunlight filtering in behind him. Sherlock's eyes briefly skirted over John's exposed body, marveling at its masculine beauty.

Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips before seeming to realize that his was ogling at his best mate. He quickly scolded himself and set about finishing their tea, almost in an unknown apology to John for thinking about him in such an intimate way without permission.

John appeared almost startled when the tea was placed in front of him, since Sherlock rarely if ever did anything voluntarily for another human being. Even if it was something as simple as tea, which he expected people to manage on their own, despite always asking John to make him a cup.

"Lestrade called, we have a case, if you can even call it that." Sherlock smirked at John as he sat down with his own cup in the armchair across from the good doctor.

"Oh? And what is it this time? Triple murder? Prison break?" John asked, waking up and sitting a little straighter in his chair. John was starting to get almost as bored as Sherlock himself, having nothing better to do but sit around the flat and work on his blog.

"Hardly anything nearly as _challenging_ as that. No, a string of robberies spanning the past few weeks. Never any evidence, always manages to avoid the endless cameras, that kind of thing. Oh, and they seem to like to leave a bit of a calling card from time to time." Sherlock drawled out in an uninterested, flat tone. They both knew this case wouldn't really last them the day, but still, it was something to do and they both figured they might as well help Lestrade.

"Sounds…fun… I guess I'll be finishing up my tea and taking a quick shower." John took a final, long sip of his tea and stood, arching his back and causing the dressing gown to fall open over his chest. Sherlock gulped slightly and turned towards the window, unable to allow himself to violate his flatmate's privacy and decency like he was. John yawned, and took his tea back into the kitchen, gently setting it in the sink. "So are you going to be taking a shower? I know you were up til God knows when last night, but I didn't know if you manage to pause your music long enough to take a shower and whatnot." John stood leaning against the doorway, awaiting a quick answer before heading off to use up an appropriate amount of the hot water.

"Yes, I'll be taking a shower, but feel free to take whatever time you need. We're not exactly in the greatest of hurries." Sherlock rolled his eyes and watched John shrug before turning and heading up to his room.

The moment John was out of sight and Sherlock was sure he was busy, he sagged down in his seat, too bone tired to get up at first. He knew these days; they came more and more often lately. They were the days when he was bored to tears, yet never had the energy or will to move and do anything to end that boredom. He'd lie in bed all day if he'd been allowed to, even if it meant him going absolutely stir-crazy stuck within his own mind.

And it was also days like this that always seemed to lead him to his black box, even first thing in the morning, because he knew he needed to move, to do _something_ with his time without falling into a comatose like state.

Which is why, after a few minutes of idle, maddening nothingness, Sherlock finally managed to pull himself from his chair and make his way to his own room. Once in his room with the door firmly shut and locked, he made his way over to his bed. Kneeling next to the headboard, he removed the framed Chinese piece to reveal the cubbyhole he had made in the wall. He gently took the box into his hands and lifted it carefully out of the hole. He knew it was probably one of the most basic and unimaginative–the most _ordinary_–of hiding spots for something so damning and important. But that was the beauty of it–no one would ever really look there because they all expected him to be so much smarter, so much _better_, than that.

He gently laid the box on his pillow before carefully replacing the picture. That way, even if he somehow, eventually, got caught with the box out, they still wouldn't know where it, and several other illicit things, was hidden. At least then, he could maintain some semblance of control over it. Or something along those lines.

Once the picture hung exactly as it had a few minutes prior, Sherlock took the box and moved to the other side of the bed, sitting on the floor with his back against the edge of the mattress. He undid the latch and began to remove a few select items until he was able to reach the ones he desired at that moment. Pulling out the recently sterilized syringe, his spoon, Zippo lighter, bottle of water, and small baggy of soft, white powder, Sherlock set the box aside and focused on the items before him.

He knew he had approximately 13 minutes before John finished and emerged from his shower, another 7 until he was fully dressed and would probably be expecting to hear Sherlock enter the shower, and another 9 until he would become suspicious. So Sherlock also knew he had to move a little faster with everything than he normally preferred.

Scooping out a medium amount of the snow-white powder and adding the correct amount of water, Sherlock lit the lighter below the spoon, calculating just how long until the solution became a homogenous, bubbling liquid based on the mass, melting point, and the approximate temperature of the flame. He knew he would most likely be fine on time in terms of a worrying John and any possible suspicion, but still. He wanted everything to move faster because he needed to feel the delicious burn of the cocaine in his thin veins.

He needed this boredom to end, and he sure as hell needed the energy boost, if he was going to have to deal with Lestrade and all the incompetent idiots at the Yard. And his wish was on its way to being granted as the mixture finally reached a uniform consistency and he was able to pull the plunge of the syringe, filling it up with the delicious drug. Sherlock shed his own dressing gown and grabbed a nearby belt, tightening it around his upper arm and holding it in place with his teeth. He slowly flexed his hand, urging the vein in his arm to pop up, before finding the perfect point on the vein, and sliding the needle in. Pausing for a moment to make sure the needle was in correctly, Sherlock depressed the plunger, pushing the deadly drug into his bloodstream.

Sherlock let out a low moan and let his head fall back, hitting the bed, as he began to feel the drug coursing through his veins. He quickly pulled the needle out, pressing his fingers to the small hole, and managed to undo the belt with his teeth (after all these years, he had somehow managed to become a master at that bizarre skill). He allowed himself a few minutes to enjoy the song in his veins before he heard the water turn off and John yell that he was done, Sherlock could get in now.

But Sherlock couldn't care, not at that particular moment, not really, but when John knocked on the door, it startled Sherlock out of his drug-induced haze. "You getting in soon? While I'm sure this isn't the most pressing case for anyone, we should still probably get down to the Yard before too long." John called through the door. The knock was enough to awaken Sherlock back to reality and cause him to throw everything back into the black box, fearing John would somehow manage to magically unlock and open the door. After figure out that John wasn't trying to enter the room, Sherlock sighed and slouched against the bed. Then he remembered John was talking to him and was awaiting a response.

"Um, yes, I'll be getting in momentarily, of course." He tried to sound as normal as possible, if that was even possible for 'The Freak', before looking around his room, trying to locate his dresser as if it had moved since the injection of the cocaine. Finding it exactly as it always was, Sherlock quickly rummaged through the drawers, selecting some pants and an undershirt, before grabbing a slightly used towel from the bin and making his way towards the bathroom.

Once safely inside, he shut and locked that door as well, as if John or Mrs. Hudson might manage to undo the lock on his bedroom door for whatever reason and try to get into the bathroom as well. Dropping his clothes on to the bathroom counter and throwing his towel on a nearby rack, Sherlock quickly removed his clothing, but hesitated looking up into the mirror. Even in his drugged-up mind, he knew how horrible he looked. But still, he did look.

He was skinny, abnormally and almost dangerously so, with skin as pale as porcelain and as unhealthy looking. He could see the raised scars and bumps littering his torso from years of cutting and burning and general self-harm, including the most recent ones only a few centimeters above his pelvis. He lightly traced his fingers over the wound, not even wincing at the slight pain anymore, and moved his fingers to the other marks; the cigarette burns, the cuts, the gashes, the chemical burns, all of it.

He hated them and loved them at the same time. They were a reminder of every bad thing in his life, every bad memory and experience, and of himself in general. And he hated them for that. But he also loved them in their uniqueness, secrecy, and because of the strange sense of security the raised collagen offered him whenever he felt them. But still, they were ugly to most, and Sherlock knew that is anyone ever saw them, he was done, over with. Not even Mycroft had seen him lately, seen him in his naked entirety with the scars lacing every inch of reachable, exposed skin. And they both had a vague idea of what would happen to Sherlock if he did. A thought which sent a cold shiver down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock finally sighed, ran his hands through his mess of curls, and turned away from the mirror and towards the shower. Turning on the water and stepping in, Sherlock breathed in the humid air that was starting to surround him in the small bathroom and allowed his head to rest on the cool tile wall, simply feeling the buzz of the cocaine in his veins and relishing in the way it forced his brain into a rapid fire mode that drowned out everything but the simple facts. Drown out the pain and hurt and confusion and just the general shitiness of life.

Sherlock stopped noticing the time pass, only noticing feeling the welcoming heat of the water as it cascaded down his bare back.

The first time Sherlock did cocaine, it was anything but planned or unwelcome. He was in secondary school, still as much of a hated freak as he had been in primary school, but somehow even more of a social pariah than before. Mycroft was gone, off at uni, so Sherlock was left without his greatest enemy but also his greatest protector because though Mycroft knew some of Sherlock's secrets, even back then before things got really bad and had seen some of them for himself, he was also fiercely protective of Sherlock, as most big brothers tend to be of their little siblings. And with his parents just as distant as ever and him no being "too old" for a nanny, Sherlock really was on his own now,

Which also meant that no one really noticed when he was gone. Nor cared. So Sherlock could basically do whatever he wanted, when he wanted, so long as he didn't get caught by any outside authorities, thereby reminding his parents and others of his incompetence at general functioning in life.

So when he snuck out one night, after getting the shit beat out of him once again at school, and went down to the shadier side of the Thames, no one noticed. Absent-mindedly navigating his way through the throngs of homeless and various low-class of London, he came across a group of teenagers his age and just a little older, though clearly none of them were in school or going to uni judging by the fact they all seemed to possess the grammar skills of a primary school student.

Still, Sherlock approached the group as they huddled around a bin fire. They acted a little suspicious of the newcomer at first, but Sherlock gave a half-hearted, disinterested shrug and that seem to be some kind of universal signal because others of the group merely shrugged in response and went back to their truly _enlightening_ conversation about skateboarding and how much the police sucked.

After standing around for a while, Sherlock went to leave the small group and the warmth of the fire someone always made sure was still going. But one of the other teenagers, a girl with black hair and multiple facial piercings, grabbed his arm.

"Oi, leaving before the fun starts?" She asked with a kind smile. Despite her appearance, she was remarkably peppy and one might even go so far as to say _happy_.

"Fun? What? Are we going to be discussing the latest graffiti 'art' and deciding which low-class, unsanitary, disgusting hole in the wall we're going to grab a 'quick bite at'? And would that be after you're little lover boy over there screws pink hair, catching her obvious STD, judging by the constant shifting and supposedly inconspicuous scratching and the fact that she's throwing herself at your boy toy in some asinine way of proving that her current state doesn't void the possibility of sex and desperately needing some form of reassurance as to her appeal. Or after green jacket passes out and asphyxiates on his own vomit? Which, I guessing by the crowd's apparent indifference and green jacket's general state of attire, is something that has not only happened before, but repeatedly before, leading to you constantly having to move from spot to spot once the ambulance and police show up to grab his unconscious, idiotic self. Do you want me to finish out the circle or shall that be sufficient enough to get you to unhand me?" Sherlock snarled, looking down at the hand on his arm with contempt. He hated everyone right now, including his family, including these imbeciles around him, including the girl with endless body modifications touching him, and, especially, himself.

Expecting the girl to be offended or scared off by his outburst, he was extremely surprised when she simply stared at him for a quick moment before bursting out laughing. "Oi! This one's a crack! Come on, mate, stay a bit longer, just til Skip gets here. Then you can decide whether or not you want to leave. And Skip's got the good stuff mate, promise. Oh, and Bobby! Get away from that one unless you want to catch something mate!" She added, yelling over her shoulder to the "lover boy". She continued chuckling as green jacket passed out, and she moved to nudge him over with her booted foot until he was on his stomach. She returned to stand next to Sherlock.

"There, problems solved. Anyway, I'm Marge, and you?" She smiled at Sherlock in a way that stumped Sherlock once again. He expected just as much scorn and hatred from this crowd as he got from everyone else, and was surprisingly confused when they, especially this Marge, seemed to accept him without question or judgment.

"I– I'm Sherlock." Marge stuck out her hand.

"Nice to meet you Sherlock, and let me officially welcome you to the group." She began to make introductions around the circle, which seemed normal despite the fact he had been standing with them for almost an hour already without ever saying anything, let alone bothering to greet anyone. And yet they all seemed perfectly okay with that and not offended in the least. And Sherlock found that he liked it for some odd reason. Maybe it was just being accepted without it being forced with tight, fake smiles and hidden fear and disgust. But still, he liked this odd group of other unwanted misfits.

Marge made conversation with him, just talking about absolutely nothing, but Sherlock didn't mind. Because, for one of the first times in his life, someone was actually talking to him, and genuinely wanted to be, for that matter.

Before too long, Marge looked behind Sherlock and smiled even wider than before. "Oi! It's Skip! You better have brought the good shit, mate; my man Sherlock here seems like he's needing a fix!" Marge called over Sherlock's shoulder. He turned to see another young man, only a few years older than the ones that were already standing here, in dark denim jeans, a Beatles screen tee, and a slightly wrinkled, unbuttoned dress shirt.

Again, Sherlock was somewhat familiar with drugs, the various kinds and their various effects, and he wasn't stupid or naïve enough not to catch on to what Marge had been saying. But still, standing there as the apparent dealer sauntered up dressed like any normal guy his age, Sherlock felt as if he was dreaming, as cliché as that sounds. Because he had a hard time believing that he was standing in the bad part of the lower side of London, surrounded by a bunch of junkies, as the dealer came up and pulled out a few baggies of various substances, in the middle of the night when he was supposed to be in bed at home.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Marge, I got the good shit, so calm yourself, woman." Marge merely stuck her tongue out at Skip as he joined the circle on the other side of Marge. "Alright, Benny! I got your shit." He tossed the bag that looked to be filled with marijuana to one of the guys on the other side of the fire, who barely managed to catch it before it fell into the fire. "Mark, mate, got your shit too, and thanks for the payment, by the way, it really came in handy," he tossed a similar baggie to the man standing next to 'Benny' with a smile and a wink. "Let's see, got Joey's shit," He mumbled almost to himself as he selected a bag and looked around the circle. Marge simply rolled her eyes and pointed behind them to where green jacket had passed out. "Oh right, here ya go, mate," Skip lifted Joey's jacket and slipped the baggie into his jacket pocket before pulling out his wallet and taking what Sherlock assumed was his payment. "Right, next, Cody, your supply of quick trips," Skip smiled as he handed what appeared to be a pack of stamps, which Sherlock (correctly) assumed was actually LSD tablets, to the man standing next to Sherlock

"Thanks mate." Cody said with a nod before handing a small stack of bills to Skip and promptly leaving the circle.

"Well he bloody well knows what he wants." Skip laughed and shook his head and Sherlock noticed Marge was smiling after Cody as well. _Must be a good friend as well as a client_ Sherlock thought to himself as Skip continued to conduct his nefarious business exchanges. "Anyway, Lydia, here's your stuff and I expect your payment, in full, by Thursday, understood?" Skip stopped smiling as a young blonde made her way over to Skip and accepted the baggie filled with yellowish clumps of powder. Even though Sherlock wasn't very familiar with drugs in person, he knew enough and could read enough off of this Lydia girl to know that the baggie was most likely filled with meth, and that Ms. Lydia had had previous trouble coming up with payment before. But still she took the baggie and greedily opened it up, inhaling the scent of her addiction, before turning back to Skip.

"Of course, mate, I won't be late this time, I promise." She nodded enthusiastically, as if that might somehow work as payment too.

But Skip merely gave her a look, "You better, because you know the consequences. Manny isn't going to be happy if you don't bring the money because that means I'm not bringing in the money I'm expected too, so if I get in trouble, you get in trouble, understood?" It was the first direct indication that Sherlock got that Skip wasn't a one-man dealer. He worked for someone, which Sherlock had already suspected based on the variety of drugs he had showed up with. Dealers who were only out for themselves tended to have one focus when it came to drugs, with occasionally handling few select other type. But showing up with baggies that had at least 6 different drugs between them tended to indicate a more complex drug ring.

Finally Skip turned to Marge, the rest of the group either sharing with the others or already having got their fix. "And for the lovely lady and her new friend, I see," Skip did a mock gentleman's bow and presented a baggie filled with fine, pure white powder.

"Thank you, Skip! And this is Sherlock. He just decided to join us poor sods tonight and I swear he's fucking psychic or some cool shit like that, mate!" Skip immediately straightened up and became extremely alert as he scrutinized Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes.

"Oh do calm down, if I wanted to report anyone here, I could have done so an hour ago when I first showed up. Clearly since I didn't and still haven't, I'm not going to at this point." Sherlock stated in a bored monotone, carelessly waving his hand as if to demonstrate his point.

"And why might that be, mate? I mean, seriously, why should I bloody well trust you?" Skip was defensive and the rest of the group had noticed the exchange by this point, all lowering their various fixes and staring, worried and even a little scared, as to how this was going to end and if they needed to start running.

"Because I don't care. I mean, I'm hardly one to get all high and mighty about a person's vices considering my own and those of my family. Not to mention, yet again, that I could've called the police and told them enough to get each of you arrested on multiple charges mere minutes after I showed up. Do you lot truly understand how much of your illegal activities you wear on you? Hell, dear Joey here has at least two warrants out for his arrest, judging by the 3 fake ID's I saw in his wallet when you took your payment, as well as an extensive history with the police. Benny over here wouldn't last half a second next to a drug canine, what with the marijuana particles right there on his shoes, which most likely fell there when you went to roll a hasty, desperate joint using the last modicum of your stash before you came here. Lydia's clearly a prostitute as well as a meth addict, as is Ms. Pink Hair over there, because that's the only way they can manage to get enough money for drugs, which explains the STD I told Marge about earlier, by the way. Might want to get that checked out at a free clinic or something. Oh, and the fact that there are already several burnt up baggies in the fire, all the same size and made with the same type plastic as each other, and the exact same as all of the baggies you just distributed so this is a regular meet up for the exchange and use of drugs, a fact that most police would be very interested to learn. So yeah, _mate_, as I said, I could've called the police well over an hour ago, had I felt the desire, but I don't. Because _I. Don't. Care._" Sherlock stood there, breathing ever so heavily, very not used to any amount of confrontation. Or at least, not used to actually responding to confrontation in any amount.

The rest of the group stood gaping at him, including Skip and even Marge, who had already seen part of his mental abilities. Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed as Sherlock turned to stare back into the fire and the others continued to stare at him, utterly dumbstruck.

It was Marge that broke the silence.

"I bloody well told you! He's fucking psychic! Oi mate! That is bloody amazing; you've got to show me how you do that! Skip, what did I tell you! He's cool, now calm yourself, ya sod." Marge continued to smile and laugh as she took some of the powder from the baggie and sat down on the ground, clearly over Sherlock and Skip's slight row. Skip just stared for a few more seconds before shrugging.

"Eh, who am I to go against Marge, of all people? If she says you're an alright bloke, then I guess you are. We good, mate?" Skip stuck his hand out for Sherlock to shake, which he did with some reluctance.

"I guess so, and you really don't have to worry, I don't intend n telling anyone since that would also mean admitting to my own presence here, which can easily be as damning for me as any of you."

"Good to know mate, good to know. But seriously, Marge was right, you need to show us how you did that shit; it was epic, I tell you. It really is like you're psychic or something." Skip shook his head and chuckled, mostly to himself. It was the first time in his life that someone had actually found what he did, what he could do, interesting, let alone _cool_.

Which is probably why, when Skip offered him a small baggie 'on the house', one a fraction of the amount of Marge's own, Sherlock accepted it. Much the same way Marge and Skip and this entire rag-tag group had accepted him. And when he sat down next to Marge, she showed him how to cut the cocaine into lines on the back of the book she had brought with her that Sherlock had somehow managed to miss until that moment. She showed him how to roll up a random pound note and snort the lines in quick succession, as well as telling him the things to avoid and what to be prepared for. She guided him through this new experience, all the way up until he leaned over his own line, the make-shift straw up to his nose, and snorted the line of fine, white powder into his nose and sinuses.

At first, the pain in his head and sinuses was maddening, but Marge rubbed his back comfortingly as the pain gave way to his mind racing with, just, _everything_. But it wasn't any of the complete shit his mind was usually racing with. No. his mind was racing with _beauty_ and _science_ and thoughts that he never thought he would have, genius brain and all. He could now see so much he hadn't been able to before, and he absolutely fucking loved it.

And Marge was sitting right there next to him, smiling up at him as she watched him experience his first cocaine high. And they both knew at that moment, and even Skip standing a few feet away could tell, that this wasn't going to be a onetime thing. Not even close.

Sherlock was shaken out of his reverie and he realized two things at once: first, the water was now freezing and appeared to have gone cold some time ago judging by the fact that there was no longer any steam in the bathroom and by the fact that, second, John was knocking at his bedroom door, calling his name.

Sherlock quickly turned off the water, carelessly leaping out of the shower and drying himself as fast as he could manage, which on a cocaine buzz, was pretty damn fast. He yanked on his pants and undershirt before unlocking the bathroom door and rushing back into his bedroom, where he could more clearly hear John in the hallway.

"Sherlock, are you okay in there? You can't have really been in the shower that whole time; the water has to be utterly freezing by now! Anyway, Lestrade called and would very much like us to hurry up and get over to the Yard. But really, are you okay Sherlock?" John's concerned voice drifted through the door, making Sherlock's heart clench in guilt, self-loathing, and reminding him what a complete wanker he was at times.

How could he have lost track of time like that] Complete imbecile! That's what he was! Sherlock continued to chide himself as he answered John. "Yes, I'm fine John, and your concern is almost contagious, really. I'll only be a few minutes more, so you may head back downstairs and wait for me." Sherlock tried to sound as composed, apathetic, and as least drugged as possible as he found a clean, and even ironed, pair of trousers, along with a light blue dress shirt, sports coat, knit socks, and even a matching pair of shoes in under a minute and a half. He managed to dress himself and appear put together and business-like in only three additional minutes. He almost exited his room before running back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and almost tripping over some of the things from his black box on his way out the door.

He started when he saw that he hadn't bother to put away the damning box and all its evidence, which he quickly did, kneeling on his bed to removed the picture, place the box in its hiding place, and haphazardly placing the picture back, not having the time to place it back in its original, proper position.

He grabbed his watch and wallet before leaping down the stairs, startling a patiently waiting John. He put on his coat, scarf, and gloves before turning to notice John still staring at him.

"Well, come on, the Yard is waiting for our expertise, as always, Dr. Watson." Sherlock gave a sincere yet cocky smile as he opened the front door of 221B Baker Street and joined the flow of London people and traffic. John stood opened mouthed for only a moment longer before grabbing his own coat and rushing after Sherlock as he waved down a cab.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: So, I didn't realize until yesterday that the thingy I was using to separate the current from the flashback wasn't showing up on here, so I do apologize. However, you needn't worry for this chapter because it's all about le case and in the present :)**

**Anyway, please R&R and I hope you enjoy**

The cab ride was fairly uneventful, aside from Sherlock acting a bit cooped up and on edge, but John put that down to boredom and potential interest in the case. As soon as they pulled up to the Yard, Sherlock jumped out of the cab, leaving John to pay the tab once again. By the time John exited the cab, Sherlock was already bounding through the doors and into the building, forcing John to jog in order to catch up. Which John did at the lift.

"Sherlock, is there a particular reason as to why you're acting like a child in a candy store? The case only seems to be a 4, so I don't see why you're so excited all of the sudden." John inquired as he stood by Sherlock who was currently bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Oh come now, John! A case is a case! And it is still high enough to warrant leaving the flat. And here's our ride!" Sherlock hopped through the lift doors as soon as they opened, not giving a second thought to all of the people trying to exit who he merely pushed aside.

John offered apologies on Sherlock's behalf as the disgruntled group disembarked and John was finally able to get on the polite way. "Really, Sherlock, must you be so rude at times? Would it have been so hard to wait a moment to allow those people to get off before barreling in yourself?" John asked with an exasperated tone as he pushed the button to Lestrade's floor. Sherlock looked over at John's comment and subsequent sigh. John met his eyes before going back to staring straight ahead.

Sherlock immediately felt guilty for his actions. He hated it when John looked at him like _that_, like he was a royal arse and just so impossible. It made Sherlock feel worthless and even the cocaine coursing through his veins couldn't dull the sudden onslaught of negativity in Sherlock's chest. After a moment or two, the lift began to slow down, and Sherlock quietly spoken up.

"I am sorry about my behavior, John. I'll remember to mind myself better in the future." Sherlock was looking down as he said this, and John could sense the sincerity of his words.

"And that's all I was asking for." John gave him a pat on the shoulder before exiting the now open lift. Sherlock followed suite as they navigated the endless cubicles to Lestrade's office.

When they arrived at Lestrade's open door, he was on the phone, but waved them in. John went ahead and took a seat while Sherlock remained standing, preferring to lean against the wall. After Lestrade hung up the phone, he gave an annoyed sigh and turned to face the two men in front of him.

"Well it took you bloody long enough to get here!"

"Sorry, but it doesn't appear to be the most interesting case and we are here because _you_ asked for _our_ help, so I don't see why we're being chided for you lot not being able to do your job." Sherlock replied coolly. With his arms crossed, he absent-mindedly traced as a scar he could feel even through his multiple layers, slightly unaware of his surroundings due to the cocaine still singing in his veins.

"And you don't need to be an arse about being here either." Lestrade snapped back. He took a deep breath before standing. "Anyway, as I told you this morning, there's been a string of robberies over the past few weeks with seemingly nothing in common. At least at first glance."

"Obviously you're still not looking correctly the first time." Sherlock continued to move his fingers across his arm, the movement barely perceptible. Except to those who knew Sherlock and a majority of his mannerisms. Like John, who noticed but didn't say anything, merely writing it off as some bored tick, like biting one's nails.

Lestrade moved from behind his desk and stood directly in front of the two men. "As I was saying, at first they do seem completely random–an off-license, a pharmacy, a small bank, a local jewelry store, hell, even a bloody library! But then there began to be other things."

"Like…?" Sherlock drawled out, encouraging Lestrade to get to the point and the evidence that was no doubt awaiting their inspection in a nearby room, and no doubt a room with Donovan and Anderson.

"Like the fact that each location was equipped with a multitude of cameras and security systems, as well as the CCTV's outside, and yet there is nothing on the tapes."

"They've obviously been tampered with."

"Obviously, but there's the fact that they're perfectly synced, even to traffic passing outside, as if they were, in fact, rolling the entire time. They even have the various owners and workers showing up at the exact time that they arrived for work. And they're all closed circuit cameras, the one at the off-license still used VHS's of all things."

"And yet they were tampered with." John added from his seat, finally joining the conversation.

"Exactly. And then there's the calling cards. I mean, there are more similarities in method and whatnot, but you'll see those soon enough anyway, Sherlock."

"Apparently not quite so soon since we're still stuck in here talking."

"The calling cards aren't so much cards as items. Which, at first, weren't even connected to the crime they were found at, let alone to the other robberies–"

"How not surprising."

"Okay, are you trying to be a complete git today or something?" Lestrade asked, quickly becoming fed up with Sherlock's antics and attitude, despite his certain amount of tolerancce.

"Perhaps, or perhaps I've simply developed a small case of cabin fever what with not being called to consult on anything in a good week or so. Yes, it started to seem as if you lot had finally learned how to do your job on your own after all. But I suppose not." Lestrade moved forward, almost as if to strike Sherlock.

"You listen here, you arrogant twat, I–"

"All right, all right, let's calm down now." John interrupted and quickly got between the two men, giving Sherlock an annoyed and slightly disappointed look. "Greg, you were saying? About the calling card?" John stepped back and resumed a business-like stance next to the two, although still prepared to jump in between the hot heads.

"Right, as I was trying to say, they made no sense, so no connection was made. At the first crime scene, it was a coffee stirrer." Now it was John's turn to interrupt.

"A coffee stirrer? Blimey, I wouldn't exactly call that much of a calling card either."

"I know. Anyway, it was fairly front and center at the crime scene, which was surprisingly clean for a robbery, so Anderson went ahead and bagged it. Then at the next robbery, there was a plastic baggie. And again, pretty mundane except for being in the center of the crime scene. And again, it was bagged by Anderson. The next robbery was clean, no random trash in the middle of everything. But the following one, the library, caught our eye and forced us to begin to make a connection."

"That must have been one hell of a task." Sherlock muttered under his breath. A disapproving look from John shut him up rather quickly though and forced another surge of self-loathing and guilt to flood Sherlock's mind.

"Yes. Several books were stolen from a few various stacks but dead center between all those stacks was a set of study tables, one of which had the now trademark baggie with the coffee stirrer inside. Anderson bagged that as well, none of us quite sure what the bloody hell to make of any of it, when we got the call for the next crime scene before we had even finished dealing with the first. This time, it was a bank a few blocks from the library. And that's when the pieces starting making at least a little more sense; we came across the baggie and stirrer again, but this time the baggie was also filled with cocaine."

At this, Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Let me see."

"Well there's still some more, and–"

"Irrelevant, show me the baggies, I know you were planning on it anyway; it's why you bothered standing up and walking this way instead of just tossing us some case file. Now, show me the calling cards, as you so observantly call them." Sherlock's earlier apathy and disregard for the case was suddenly gone, his brain already making connections that the Yard never would be able to on its own. His tone was commanding, potentially even close to menacing, so Lestrade led them out of his office and down the hall, not really wanting to get in Sherlock's way.

As soon as Lestrade indicated a specific room, Sherlock barged in, catching Donovan and Anderson in the middle of a shamelessly flirty conversation. They both started as Sherlock grabbed a pair of latex gloves and promptly set about opening the evidence with a pocket knife he seemed to pull out of nowhere.

"Oi Freak! What the hell do you think you're doing] You can just tamper with evidence like that! I should report you–" Donovan began ranting at him as soon as he sat down. By this time, John and Lestrade were also in the room, staring is as much disbelief as Anderson.

"Maybe if you complete and utter baboons had the slightest of clues as to what the hell were doing, I wouldn't have to. While you were correct in collecting and bagging these items to preserve them as 'evidence', they will serve far more purpose being examined by someone with a skilled eye, not a set of bruised knees." Sherlock replied viciously as he laid out all of the 'calling cards' from the various scenes in order of their appearance. There were 2 lone coffee stirrers, 3 lone baggies, 1 baggie/coffee stirrer, and 3 baggies with the coffee stirrers and cocaine.

"Um, Sherlock, cared to filled the rest of us in here?" John asked somewhat tentatively as the others continued to stare at Sherlock's disregard of protocol with shock.

"Quite simple, really. Pretty much all underground drugs, from marijuana to heroin to cocaine, have their own specific composition. They–"

"Yes, we're aware of that fact, which is how we are able to tell the difference between cocaine, meth, and sugar." Anderson smirked, as if he had actually managed to catch Sherlock off guard.

"No doubt you've managed that most basic of forensic work, though I have to admit, even I do doubt your ability to do such routine and mundane of tests from time to time. And actually, I was referring to the fact that almost every drug dealer cuts his supply differently, almost as though they each have though own 'secret family recipe', if you will, for any given drug. Which you might know if you ever bothered to stop shagging Donovan enough to pay attention and do your damn job!"

"Wait, so if we figure out the specific composition and chemicals in this cocaine, we can find a supplier, which could lead us directly to the thief!" John quipped as he figured out where Sherlock was going before the others. Sherlock turned from Anderson to face John, giving him a genuine smile, proud that his best mate was still quicker than the others.

"Exactly, Doctor. Now I just need a microscope and–"

"Why not just run it through mas-spec?" Lestrade asked from his corner of the room. Sherlock gave him a look as if to ask just how many times he had been dropped on his head as a baby.

"Not specific enough, takes too long, and I would much rather see for myself than trust some machine Anderson's messed with and no doubt screwed up. Now, a microscope!" Sherlock scooped up the 3 baggies of cocaine and rushed from the room and down the hall to the lifts. The rest of the group rolled their eyes but quickly followed his lead, knowing that, if nothing else, they needed to keep an eye on the evidence Sherlock was so carelessly carrying.

They made their way down towards the evidence lab, everyone trying to ignore Sherlock's sudden irritability and energy. He did claim to be a sociopath, after all, so could they really ever expect typical behavior from him? But still, they diligently followed him as he began to set up the microscope and various baggies. He added a few milligrams of cocaine from each other the baggies to their own perspective slides, then retrieved an eye dropper full of distilled water. He added a few drops of the purified water to the slides before setting the first one under the scope. John dutifully handed him a notebook and pen as Sherlock began adjusting and examining the sample. He began scribbling things down that seemed like complete gibberish to John but appeared to make sense to Anderson as he quite literally stood over Sherlock's shoulder, watching him work.

"Anderson, will you please remove yourself and your overwhelming stench of onions from my immediate space? Really, I didn't think basic dental hygiene was still such a difficult concept in the UK. Now if you'll allow me to get back to–" Sherlock suddenly stopped talking, the pen in his hand hovering mid air.

"Sherlock, what is it? What did you find?" John approached Sherlock's side and gently laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. That seemed just enough to wake Sherlock up again.

"Quickly, Anderson! Do you have a more powerful microscope?"

"Um, no, like Lestrade said earlier, we tend to use the mas-spec and–" Anderson stuttered at the unexpected outburst and question.

"Gah! Complete baboons, truly!" Sherlock threw his hands off before rushing over to a refrigerated cabinet full of various chemicals and solutions. He punched in the code to the keypad and scoured the stock until here found the compound he was looking for.

"How the bloody hell do you know that code? That's a crime, isn't it, Lestrade? Tampering with police things or something?" Anderson looked to Lestrade for support but the DI merely gave him an equally confused look in return.

"Hardly my fault you make the code so easy to figure out or that you're not properly equipped with even the most basic of scientific tools and supplies." Sherlock mutter under his breath as he began measuring out a half teaspoon of cocaine from each of the baggies and into test tubes. The eye dropper that had just held the distilled water was emptied and instead filled with the liquid solution Sherlock had grabbed from the storage fridge. Adding approximately 7 drops to each test tube, Sherlock quickly disposed of the dropper and waited to see what would happen, as did the others standing around the worktable. After a few seconds of baited nothingness, they began to hear a slight hiss and the mixture began to bubble in the slightest, with the same reaction happening in each test tube.

The pen Sherlock had just been holding clatter to the floor as the consulting detective was left absolutely speechless. A fact that most assuredly was not lost on the others.

"What? The Freak finally met his match in a test tube? Makes sense since that where he was conceived in the first place." Donovan laughed at her own joke, Anderson half-heartedly joining in as he stared confused at the test tubes. Lestrade shot her a dirty look before sharing a concerned one with John.

"Um, Sherlock, seriously, what's going on here? What did you discover?" John asked quietly as he went to stand beside Sherlock. Their arms and hips touching, Sherlock was briefly distracted but the delicious contact but was forced back into focus when he saw Lestrade pick up the notebook he had just been using. It brought everything back down again and his simply shook his head and little out a self-deprecating laugh.

"It's impossible, John, it really is." At this, he suddenly had everyone's rapt attention, not just because of the comment itself but because of the tone Sherlock had taken on. Not even John had heard him use such a tone before.

"What are you talking about, Sherlock? Come on, you've got to tell us what's going on? What's in the cocaine, Sherlock? What did you find?" John calmly tried to coax a more informative response out of Sherlock before one of the others could cut in again.

But Sherlock merely shook his head again and laughed, "It can't be. That mix, that recipe–it shouldn't be sitting there right now. And I would just say it's old, left-over batch from ages ago but if that were true, it wouldn't have reacted at all; the active compounds would've fizzled out years ago if that were the case. But you saw it as much as I did, a perfectly active set of compounds, still fully capable of chemical reactions!" Sherlock let out another laugh that had even Donovan and Anderson exchanging wary looks. Lestrade motioned for them to leave so that he and John could try and get more out of Sherlock without their annoying presence potentially keeping him quiet.

As soon as they left, John turned back to Sherlock, laying a hand on his forearm and accidently touching the fresh needle mark was from that morning. Sherlock tried not to flinched back, but instinct and reflexes got the better of him before he could completely control his reaction. A small reaction that John still very much took notice of.

"Sherlock, please, you've got to talk to us here because clearly you're seeing a whole hell of a lot that we aren't, so please, help us out here." John almost whispered to Sherlock where he still sat with a strained smile.

"You don't understand, John."

"No, I bloody well don't, which is why I really need you to explain this one to me, Sherlock. Can you do that? For me?" John moved his hand down Sherlock's arm, closer to his wrist and hand, and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Please?" With that final note, Sherlock let out a deep breath and slumped forward until his forehead was resting on the cold metal worktable in front of him. John and Lestrade shared extremely worried expressions, both of them finally starting to understand that this wasn't just a case to Sherlock–there was something more–something personal– here and one thing they were sure of, Sherlock didn't do _personal_ very well.

Just when John was about to suggest they just go home for the day, Sherlock sat up with a sigh, running his hands through his already tousled curls. He steepled his hands under his chin in that way John had come to adore in the past few years but that currently sent foreboding shivers through his body. Sherlock noticed this and finally decided that he truly did have to tell them what was going on.

"As you may know from my record Greg, despite how hard my arrogant brother tries to hide and destroy it, I was hardly anything of a model citizen during my time a Uni and the following years."

"Yeah, I had seen a few disorderly charges and a possession here and there, but I'm far more concerned what a rap sheet that hasn't had anything new added to it in almost a decade has to do with this case or how you're currently acting, for that matter." Lestrade responded, crossing his arms and becoming increasingly worried over what he, and John, were about to find out about Sherlock.

"It has absolutely everything. Those possession charges were only because I needed to keep another person, Marge usually, from getting taken in instead. My parents, as much as they detested to, could always bail me out, but Marge, she didn't have any options like that."

"So you were protecting someone? Is that what you told the police when they asked what the hell you thought you were doing?" It seemed it was finally Lestrade's turn to interrupt and make little digs, and his turn to receive several reprimanding looks from John.

"Of course I never told them that. No, I usually just annoyed the absolute bloody hell out of those cops until they'd either slap me with another charge or completely ignore me until my parents or Mycroft showed up." They all got a slight chuckle from that admission as Sherlock continued his ill-omened story. "Anyway, there's a lot more to it, but essentially Marge and I had the same dealer, Skip, who actually worked for a guy named Manny, Manuel if you want, who happened to be the leader of a fairly complex drug ring. After a drop had gone bad one night, Skip went to confront Manny, carrying only a shit pistol he had received as a form of payment once. That was a bad idea to start with, but it was made even worse in that Skip wasn't just bringing up the things he had noticed, the problems with how Manny was doing business, but also brought up some of the ones I had noticed from time to time in my dealings with Skip and his boss.

"But Skip still brought them all up, obviously infuriating Manny at having a subordinate call him out and say he was shit at his job." Sherlock didn't fail to notice the raised eyebrow Lestrade shot his way. "Yes, well, I think we can all agree, challenging colleagues and friends is a bit different than insulting a crime boss with a short temper. As I was saying, Manny was utterly furious, and when Skip pulled out the gun, no doubt in some ill-planned attempt at a coup, Manny was faster. He pulled out his own gun and shot Skip in the chest. Repeatedly. Afterwards–"

"Wait, I hate to interrupt because I very much do want to know where this is going, but how do you know this all happened? Please don't tell me you were there or anything, Sherlock." John gave his friend a deeply caring, deeply concerned look. Sherlock merely smiled this sad smile that made John's chest clench with worry. Because Sherlock didn't do emotions, didn't do _sentiment_, yet here he was, frazzled by a case and telling a story of his past that clearly upset him.

"Marge, she was there, and she told me everything that had happened right afterwards. She and Skip had a fairly _casual_ relationship, but they still looked after each other as much as they could, and always tried to stay friends, drugs and job aside. Anyway, Manny shot and killed Skip. Right in front of Marge, who he no doubt knew cared deeply for Skip. He and Marge exchanged a few words about telling no one about what she had just witnessed. Words that Marge clearly disregarded seeing as the first thing she did was come find me and tell me everything that had just happened.

"Besides the loss of a friend and lover, that also meant Marge, and yes myself as well, were out of a dealer. Now, I came from money and knew how to skim more for drugs without being caught. But again, Marge didn't have that option. Hell, the only reason Skip continued to supply her even though she was complete shit at making payments was because he would occasionally take sex and various other work as payment. But again, they had a relationship of sorts, and one that most other dealers would never enter into with a client they knew used as much as she did. Too risky, even for them. This meant that Marge was screwed, for lack of a better word, because I could always find another dealer, seeing as I was always good for payment, didn't talk, and usually had enough about a dealer in 2 minutes to blackmail them into selling to me…"

"But Marge couldn't." John finished for him, beginning to understand a bit of the relationship between Sherlock and this Marge of his past. Despite his claims of indifference, John knew Sherlock not only cared for a few select people, but cared very deeply for them and was extremely protective of them. Which is part of why he knew this story could only get worse, far past the point of learning that his best mate had done hardcore drugs in his early twenties, with a nagging feeling there was even more to the drugs than that.

"Correct." Sherlock gave him another small smile before continuing. "And there was no feasible way for me to skim enough money at home to take care of both of our habits without being noticed, hers being far worse than mine. So we had to come up with an alternative. Again, I could go to any dealer I wanted, and had before that point, whenever Skip was busy, or it was dangerous or inconvenient for us to meet up. I'd simply go find my fix somewhere else, and having done so, I knew that Manny's cut wasn't actually that great. And I knew just how much he was over charging based on the quality. And I mentioned all of this to Marge. And I mentioned how we could not only have a steady supply but also kick Manny off the market, earning double what he ever did, by making and selling our own cut." Sherlock didn't bother to look at his two friends, knowing they would both hold looks of shock and disappointment. Yes, he was already far too aware just how far their disappointment in him went. But still, he continued.

"So we came up with our own cut. It was far more pure than most any other cut out there, had less insolubles and was therefore less likely to cause an embolus, had different chemical compounds than any other cut which led to longer and better highs, and–"

"Wait, I think I remember that shit! I was just a rookie then but even I noticed just how much trouble that stuff was. And to think! It was you of all people. How is that not surprising that you're the one that created a designer cocaine that had the Yard on its head?" Lestrade laughed and shook his head, realizing just how little was beyond the consulting detective's abilities.

However, Sherlock took it a complete different way. Being reminded, once again, just how much of an intolerable freak he truly and sincerely was. And a reminder of just how much of a disappoint he was to pretty much everyone: his parents, Mycroft, Marge and Skip, Lestrade, and now, especially, John. But he knew he couldn't stop his narration now, and not just because the case depended on what he knew. So he reluctantly and tiredly continued, the remnants of his earlier cocaine quickly waning in effectiveness.

"Anyway, we began selling, and using, our new cut. And as Greg kindly pointed out, it was a success. Soon all of Manny's clients that had once gone to him for cocaine were coming to us. And if Skip calling him out infuriated him, this enraged him beyond sanity. Which probably explains why he went out of his way to find out where Marge and I were staying and breaking into our flat at one in the morning. He, predictably, demanded that we stop selling to, and thereby stealing, all of his clients or he was going to kill us. Which Marge responded to by telling him to sod off, and that she was trying to sleep off her latest crash." Sherlock lowered his head into his hands as he was not only forced to remember that horrible night but also sit there and tell 2 of his only friends about his tragic failure to Marge.

"Sherlock, it's okay, you can tell us." John whispered as he put his arm around the detective. If Lestrade noticed anything off about the contact and closeness between the two flatmates, he didn't say anything, instead choosing to focus solely on Sherlock and his story.

Sherlock took a shuttering breath before looking back up. John and Lestrade were both dumbfounded as they saw tears forming behind Sherlock's eyes. But both of them knew better than to point them out.

"He pulled that blasted gun of his and said 'Fine, sleep ya damn whore' and shot her in the head. Goddamn it, she was right there, next to me, just on the other side of the bed, and then she was dead. And I did nothing to stop it." At this admission, the tears finally began to fall as he remembered just how poorly he had been there to protect his first, best, and only friend at that period of his life. Lestrade and John were shaken for a very different, and admittedly probably more shallow, reason. Here was Sherlock Bloody Holmes, Moriarty's proclaimed Virgin, and the man who claimed he was married to his work, admitting not only to being a junkie drug dealer, but also living and sharing a bed with a young woman and his partner in crime. Both of their opinions and ideas about the great consulting detective were shifting, for good or bad, neither knew.

John broke their stunned silence. "Sherlock, what could you have done? You're not some kind of superhero; you're nowhere near as fast as a speeding bullet, so I'm not entirely sure how you thought you could stop that from happening. And you just said that she had been trying to sleep off a bad crash from the cocaine, which I get the feeling means you were too. So what could've you have done?" John rubbed soothing circles down Sherlock's back as the taller man silently cried and Lestrade was awkwardly forced to watch on as to not miss anything.

"I could've blocked it, kept it from hitting her." Sherlock whispered so quietly that even John, who was literally right next to him, had trouble hearing.

"No. Just…no. No, Sherlock, because then you'd be the one that's dead, and I don't want to think about you being dead, not again, not after Moriarty and all that screwed up shit. There was nothing, _nothing_, you could have done. He was a violent, shut-out criminal that probably taking some of his product, just like you and Marge were. He wanted you two dead, and he was clearly determined to make that happen, understand? Just like with Moriarty, there was only so much you could do, Sherlock. Which brings me to another thing, this Manny was clearly hell bent on killing both of you, so how did you manage to escape his attack?" John had gotten so fierce with his words to Sherlock that Lestrade, harden DI and all, had to look away, feeling as though he was thoroughly stepping in an obviously private moment between the two odd flatmates.

"But that's just it, John, I had a gun too–Skip's."

"But I thought you sad it was a bad gun?"

"It was, in Skip's hands, since he clearly didn't have the slightest clue of how to use it, let alone how to restore and take care of it. But I did. And I had it that night, right next to me, centimeters from my hand. I should've shot Manny the moment he entered the room. But I didn't. because I was fucking curious as to how everything would pan out. And it cost Marge her goddamn life. It's my fucking fault she's dead."

John was shocked at the desperate sorrow and guilt afflicting his friend who had always so vehemently claimed how pointless sentiment was. Before John could respond, Lestrade asked the questions that still had yet to be answered, despite how important those answers were.

"Look, I know that kind of guilt is hard to deal with, trust me, I bloody well know just how hellish that kind of guilt can be, but it still doesn't answer what this has to do with the robberies. And you still haven't said how you survived the vindictive drug lord. Nor why all of this has come up now."

"Well, I'd think it was blatantly obvious how I got away from Manny; I shot him, wiped the gun, and left it near Marge. Looked like a drug deal gone wrong, nothing more. Which I suppose it was. As for what it means in the present day, that's where we hit a bump. Only Marge and I knew the cut, and I do mean that we were the _**only**_ ones that knew how it was made–what ingredients and chemicals were used, how we mixed and processed them, and we were most assuredly the only ones that knew of that last special ingredient, the one that apparently gave the Yard all kinds of hell back in the day. Only us. Only ever us. And Marge is dead. And I can promise I'm not the one who cooked this batch up, nor did I, at any point, ever tell another soul about our specific cut."

"And you said that this was a fairly fresh batch, that if the baggies were from back in the day, they would've got bad by now? Would've gone flat, in a sense?" Lestrade asked, finally starting to put together the pieces Sherlock had a while back.

"Exactly." Sherlock gave a slight smirk as the true puzzle, however bitter and damning it might prove to be, began to come to full light.

"So then who made this batch? And what does it have to do with the bloody robberies?" John asked, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms as he began to contemplate the latest case as well.

Sherlock merely grinned like the Cheshire cat, all evidence of his previous emotional upheaval gone from his face. He stood, ignoring the baggies of his old product and made his way over to where Lestrade was leaning against the wall. He mimicked Lestrade's posture and looked from one man to the other.

"Exactly."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thank you so much for the reviews, I truly do appreciate them. This one's a little shorter than the previous two but oh well**

**Warnings: lots more explicit self-harm and drug use, but I feel like that's kind of a given at this point**

**Anyway, please R&R as usual and I hope you enjoy :)**

"But that still doesn't explain what it has to do with all of the robberies." John pointed out as Sherlock continued to look from man to man, grinning at the latest mystery before him.

Sherlock gave him a slightly quizzical look, "But doesn't it? They're clearly trying to get my attention, the 'calling cards' only being the beginning of which." He shrugged away the explanation as if it was irrelevant and self explanatory.

"It also doesn't explain the coffee stirrers or baggies, which I take it you understand perfectly." Lestrade inclined his head, expecting Sherlock to continue his story, at least to some degree, in order to explain these last few baffling pieces.

"Ah yes, the coffee stirrers. Once again, that does in fact go back to Skip and his constant head-butting with Manny. He started putting coffee stirrers in all the cocaine purchases to piss off Manny after one of their earlier rows. A number of Skips clients had begun to complain that Manny's cut of the drug wasn't up to par and kept clumping, to which Manny responded his cut was 'fine enough to pass through a bloody coffee stirrer', so if the clients were having problems, they clearly weren't his problem. Skip responded by going down to this little café Manny loved and would always get breakfast at, and stealing a number of their stirrers after he finished his meals. Eventually the café got made at Manny for the thefts and told him to control his hooligans or he wouldn't be welcomed in the café anymore. By that time, Skip had already stolen endless amounts of the things, so when Manny told him to stop stealing, he did. But he continued to put them in every baggie of cocaine and was known to even give handfuls out to heavy users."

"Seems like you and this Skip were fairly alike." Lestrade observed from his spot. Sherlock had moved from his perch beside Lestrade and was now pacing the room, his elegant violinist hands clasped behind his back. As John watched him, he took immediately note of the way Sherlock's left thumb gently stroked over his right as he spoke. John couldn't help but lick his lips as he thought of what else those gentle hands could do. But John quickly shook those thoughts from his head, knowing that he could never act on his feelings towards his flatmate. As Sherlock had said previously, he was married to his work. Now, at least.

"Yes, I suppose we were at times. Or most likely, equally stubborn and arrogant." Sherlock smirked as he looked up at Lestrade. The way the DI nodded and chuckled made Sherlock's heart clench, but he continued to smirk, knowing that even the slightest slip of his façade would spell disaster. While Sherlock would occasionally make jokes at his own expense, he always despised the way people were so very quick to laugh and agree, just like Lestrade had done. It only ever served to remind Sherlock of his endless faults that no amount of genius talent seemed to overcome.

Trying in vain to push those thoughts from his head, he continued on in his explanation of the 'calling cards'. "As for the plastic baggies, Skip always used the exact same kind for every deal, which he bought from some random hardware store two blocks from his flat. That normally distinguished them enough to both his clients and other dealers, which was why he preferred to use them–though they did end up getting him caught from time to time as someone would rat him out. But he still preferred to use them for every deal, not just for cocaine." Sherlock stopped pacing and took a seat back at the work table next to John, missing being close to him and thinking that maybe, just maybe, being close to John might help him. Help him what, not even Sherlock knew. But he took his seat nonetheless, and picked up the previously dropped pen, twirling it between his slender fingers.

"So, somehow someone is not only aware of your past but knows it in great detail, and is trying to catch your attention." Lestrade summarized as he moved from against the wall and grabbed a seat on the opposite side of the table from John and Sherlock. He rested his elbows on the table before folding his hands in front of him. Sherlock mimicked his actions exactly, smirking at him despite the situation. John and Lestrade merely rolled their eyes and continued.

"Which they have done, but we still need to figure out what the robberies themselves mean, why those specific locations were targeted because clearly someone this obsessed doesn't randomly pick anything, what the stolen items have to do with anything, how the cameras were tampered with, who this person is in the first place, and what they want." John was quick to point out all of the many gaps they had in this investigation, turning his body slightly towards Sherlock as he did so.

Sherlock responded much the same, turning his body ever so, but more than enough to exclude Lestrade from the conversation at that particular moment. "Exactly! You serve your purpose very well on these cases, Dr. Watson." Sherlock smiled proudly at John before lifting his head to face Lestrade. "We'll need all the photos from the robberies, the camera tapes, and a very detailed list of every object that was not only stolen but even so much as moved from their original position. John and I will follow you back up to your office to get the file, but then we must be off." Sherlock stood and allowed Lestrade to exit before following with John right on his heel.

They made their way quickly back up to the DI's office where Lestrade pulled several thick folders from his desk. He handed them to Sherlock who promptly gave half to John and began looking through them as the DI spoke.

"That's everything we have so far, and the Yard's already been over it all a dozen times but we've found nothing new there in days, which is why I called you. So anything else you can add, which you obviously can, would be greatly appreciated." Lestrade sighed as he looked at Sherlock who was currently engrossed in several of the photos, but he knew the taller man had heard him.

"Yes, there is a lot here to figure out, but it shouldn't take too long…" Sherlock mumbled as he closed the file and looked up at Lestrade, eyes going wide for a moment as though he hadn't expected the DI to still be standing there. "Anyway, we'll called you when we have more. 'Til then, Lestrade." Sherlock nodded, stood, and offered his hand to Lestrade, which caused the DI to stumble once again at the out of character behavior of the detective in front of him. Even John appeared a tad wary as he stood and shook Lestrade's hand after Sherlock, hurrying to follow the man as he swept out the door.

Sherlock was silent and distant the entire cab ride, choosing to stare out the window and think. His face showed an array of emotions the good doctor had never witnessed from Sherlock, and part of that absolutely terrified the former soldier. He saw a sorrow there that he could've never imagined Sherlock even beginning to comprehend in others let alone possess himself so thoroughly. He saw anger at past wrongs, as well as a reminiscent fondness over times and friends long since gone. He also saw the ages of guilt, which he felt had to be from far more than solely the death of this Marge of his past. No, John had seen guilt like that a thousand times on the faces of the men he had served with and commanded. It was a guilt that only ever made sense in a person's head, a guilt that was always so very much more than what that person truly deserved to bare.

And John Watson wished to hell he could do anything in the world to erase that guilt from Sherlock's heart.

As they pulled up to their flat at Baker's Street, it was John who exited the cab first, expecting Sherlock to be right behind him. But he was startled to see the detective still facing out the window of the vehicle and continuing to sit there as if they hadn't yet arrived at their destination. John awkwardly paid the cabbie before trying to rouse Sherlock from his apparent slight dissociative state. He gently shook the detective's shoulders, and that seemed to be enough to get him out of the cab and through the front door.

Sherlock removed his coat and scarf almost robotically before moving to sit in his chair. He looked the picture of Victorian royalty meets the modern era as he sat erect, yet unmoving in the armchair. His face was now blank of any emotion and he stared directly forward without seeing. His elegant hands lay resting and curled around the end of the arms of the chair and his feet rested squarely before him.

As concerned as John was at Sherlock's behavior and story from no more than an hour earlier, he still had to take a moment to appreciate the lovely sight before him. A Sherlock posed so very gracefully and handsomely was a truly rare sight, what with him normally running around like a brilliant madman instead. John's graze raked over Sherlock's hands and arms, wondering just how much strength they hid beneath their slight build. His eyes trailed over Sherlock's strong shoulders and long neck, drinking in the truly delicious sight of his pale skin. Admiring beautiful angles of the taller man's face, John was once again held in utter captivity at the pale green eyes, sparkling with so much knowledge and intelligence and _life_.

But then John was forced to remember the events of that already too long day as Sherlock sighed and turned to face the window just as he had done in the cab. John approached and sat in his own armchair next to Sherlock.

"So tell me more about this Marge. She clearly meant quite a lot to you, even if you're always going on about the weakness of sentiment and all that bullocks." John smiled warmly at his flatmate, trying to encourage him to speak of the past he had so long ago done everything in his power to bury.

Sherlock looked down at his lap before glancing at John with a sad smile. John nodded for Sherlock to continue, to speak. He sighed and turned his attention back to the London passing by outside his window.

"She was a strange one, but kind and beautiful in her own way, despite the drugs and the endlessly hard life. She was almost always smiling, even when getting arrested by the bloody police, she could never really stay mad at anyone for too long. As you can probably guess, she was my first real friend, the first positive person in my life. And yes I know, she was a drug addict who also happened to be the one to start me on cocaine, but she did so much more for me.

"She was the first person who saw my abilities, saw what my mind was capable of, and didn't automatically hate me. Everyone else–classmates, teachers, adults, and even Mycroft and my parents–they all either hated me or feared me. But Marge didn't. Actually, the first thing she ever said was that it was cool and amazing and that I was bloody psychic." Sherlock smiled at John who returned the smile, partaking in his friend's happiness at remembering what was so obviously such a pivotal moment in his life. Sherlock continued his narration, no longer staring out the window but instead down at his hands as they sat clasped in his lap.

"And she was the first person to ask if I would stop by again. Most other people prayed that they'd never have to see or deal with me again, but Marge was different. She was good. And she made me strive to be better, to make her proud of me and happy to be my friend. She forced me to see so much more than I had before, when I had only ever been wrapped up in my own self and my pitiful life. She always managed to see the good, even when she was strung out on cocaine and itching for another fix, even when she was homeless, even when she had been ratted out or arrested–she always saw good, and always in the people around her. She cared about people, wanted to know how they were doing and honestly cared what the answer was. Hell, she'd even have a nice chat with the officers as they were booking her, asking how their life was going and apologizing for any trouble she might have caused. And most of the people she talked to reciprocated, even if they were surprised by her at first. She could always manage to strike up a genuine conversation with anyone she met." Sherlock smiled as he felt another volley of tears form behind his eyes. He had already cried in front of John once today, and didn't really feel like doing so again, but he could also see no easy way out of their current conversation that would allow him to him alone. So he merely hung his head a little lower and hoped that John wouldn't notice.

But of course, he did. But the flatmate only offered words of encouragement. "Go on mate, what else? There's clearly more to this brilliant young woman." John smiled even though he knew Sherlock wasn't looking at him or really paying attention to him at all. He only hoped Sherlock would feel the caring and warmth in his tone. And he did.

"Right you are there, John. We became good friends, best friends even, and began to hang out whenever we could. I suppose one might say we were dating in a sense, between the dinners we'd catch or the take away and the occasional kisses during the main rush of the cocaine. Hell, I'm sure you caught the part about us living together and even sharing a bed. But it was strange; we never really did anything of a sexual nature. Sure, we'd kiss from time to time, 'make out' if the high or crash was particularly intense, but never anything more. Yet I trusted that woman with my life, and as much as I loathe to say so, my emotions.

"She knew my faces, even when I thought I wasn't making one and always knew exactly what my mood called for and how to handle me on my bad days. And in return, I learned her–her mannerisms, her preferences, her hobbies and tells, and what she needed and when. Of course, I'd still ignore her from time to time, focusing instead on an experiment or on processing the latest batch of cocaine or playing the violin, but she never truly seemed bothered by it. No, she took me and my antics in stride.

"…and she always knew what to say, what to do or how to act, in order to get me to pay attention to what I was doing or saying–to pay attention to how I was acting and treating others. And she made me want to be better, be more like her. And so I tried to be. I tried to be the person she wanted me to be because I knew that, regardless of the drugs and the complete shit of life, I knew that I'd at least be a better person. And for a time, I was." Sherlock's voice died off. He was unable to keep the tears from falling, running down the tip of his nose and rolling off onto his hands below. He quickly hid the new-fallen moisture, continuing to greatly hope John wasn't noticing these small things. But his time working and living with Sherlock had taught and trained him well as John noticed the small tears falling from his best mate's eyes.

"But then she died." John supplied quietly, almost whispering, as Sherlock remained silent for some moments longer. Sherlock tried to gulp down the lump in his throat and compose himself before speaking again, but John could still hear the slight waver, the slight strain, in his voice.

"Yes, she did. But up until that moment, I was a far better person because she was always there to remind me just how beautiful, just how important, it was to be. A lot like you, John, always reminding me of my manners and feelings. Always there to remind me of my humanity." Sherlock looked at the army doctor, tears still staining his face and voice wavering noticeably more. Their eyes locked and John was struck by the intensity of the emotions he saw flashing across Sherlock's eyes. There was the pain from the loss of one so dear, even all those years ago, as well as a love and desperate hope for them and what they had given. He saw the same damn guilt he had been seeing all morning, but also a trust that John knew Sherlock wasn't easily or lightly giving.

But then there was something that made John stumble and his heart seize; there was not only a fear John couldn't truly identify, but a darkness that up until that point John had thought might have merely been residual upset from his past. But it was newer, and simply far more complex, heart-breaking, and intense than that.

And John didn't have the slightest of a fucking clue how to respond to that and everything else he had just seen in Sherlock's crystal green eyes. So he looked away, giving an awkward cough as he tried frantically to make sense of everything and try and understand it all. Try to understand the beautiful insanity and madness that was Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate and best friend.

But Sherlock only saw a rejection from his flatmate and friend–his only true friend. And it struck him in his core. He felt his chest tightening and his breathing sputter as his mind began its onslaught of chastisements for his stupidity, reminders as to all the reasons he had sworn off emotions and feelings and _sentiment_, a deafening blanket of humiliation, and an overflowing river of just pain. He felt his veins as they screamed for more cocaine or nicotine or anything to dull this emotional attack. And he felt his skin itching for something to do to take the edge off, for more cuts and burns and marks.

He also felt John's rejection in his blatant refusal to even so much as look him in the eye.

So he did they only rational thing his brilliant brain could come up with. He bolted.

Before John could react, Sherlock was out of his chair and flying towards his bedroom, slamming the door shut. John could hear the slight click of the lock and wondered what in the hell was wrong with himself. There he was, sitting with Sherlock as he discussed one of the most difficult and private things he clearly ever had, pouring his damned heart out to John, yet he couldn't even manage to reassure his best mate that he was there for him? No, John had instead decided to make things even more awkward and had upset–_hurt _–Sherlock in the process. And he was absolutely bloody furious with himself for doing so.

Meanwhile on the other side of the door, Sherlock was equally upset with himself.

He flung himself onto his bed, ripping the picture from its place on the wall, and yanking out his box, as well as two cell phones he had stashed there as well. He placed the box on the bed and sat cross-legged before it, curls falling into his reddened eyes. He opened the box with far more force than was necessary, only thinking of its dark comforts within.

He quickly pulled out several of his razor blades, some rubbing alcohol, and all of his cocaine supplies. He scooped out a generous amount of the fine white powder, added the water, and set about quickly preparing it. While he could still feel a decent amount of the cocaine already in his systems, it wasn't enough, not for the day he had had and especially not for what had just happened with John.

As soon as it was ready, he greedily filled the syringe and pushed the needle into his arm, not bothering with the belt or any other preparations. He needed the drug in his systems. Now. And soon enough, he felt the familiar burning and singing in his veins. His head lulled back, his mouth open in a silent groan of approval; he soared on the first glorious wave of the wonderful and potent drug.

But even the fairly high amount of cocaine buzzing through his body wasn't enough to dull the humiliation and damning pain of what he had just told–admitted–to John. He had basically told John that he cared about him, was inspired to be more like him, and wanted to make him proud. And that he loved him to a certain degree, and even though John didn't know just how far, how deep, that love and affection went, it was still far more than enough to cut to the quick when John had made it quite clear how uncomfortable and awkward Sherlock had made him feel by what he'd told his flatmate.

Which was why the cocaine wasn't enough right then. Which was why Sherlock picked up a razor blade and turned it over thoughtfully in his hands.

Sherlock leaped off the bed, stripping down to just his pants and undershirt, and retrieved a hand towel from the bathroom. He sat back as he had been on the bed with the towel folded beneath his legs and picked the razor back up. Without pausing to think, he made a quick, deep cut across the top of his right thigh. It stung, enough to dull the other pain, but didn't appear to have been deep enough to do any damage. But there was some dark, damning part of Sherlock that kind of wanted it too. Which is why he didn't bother thinking or hesitating as he made another, deeper cut centimeters away from the first. But even that wasn't enough for his spiraling mood and drug induced mania.

He carelessly tossed the razors back inside the box, not bothering to clean them or even wipe then down as he normally would. Instead, he plucked a small knife from the deadly box and twirled it between his long fingers. But it only lasted a moment before Sherlock flipped the knife and slashed it across his other thigh. It left a wound that most doctors would probably recommend a number of stitches for. But one that Sherlock thought was just right and one he was already far too gone to care about it anyway.

After the pain began to wan in the flood of endorphins and cocaine, the thoughts began to come back. The humiliation and disappointment at letting his emotions get the better of him not just at the Yard but also with John once they got home. He couldn't believe he had lost control of himself so completely, so many times, in a single day. And it was maddening to him in his depressed insanity. It was maddening in a way that not only made his head hurt but made his chest clench so tightly it was almost impossible to breathe.

So he gripped the small knife again and drew it across his thigh one again, criss-crossing his first two cuts and going just as deep as the other. But this time, he took his time, almost carving the knife into his thigh as he pulled. He reveled in the sweet pain and slick blood bubbling to the top and spilling over the edges of the wound. He watched the warm liquid trail down his thighs and gather on the towel beneath him. He ran a finger through the blood and slowly brought it to his lips, tasting the metallic substance with a light hint of the cocaine. Licking his lips, he dropped the knife back into the box and slumped back against his headboard, simply relishing in his glorious high.

He didn't care about the case anymore or what it might mean for him. He didn't care about Lestrade or anyone at the Yard. He didn't care about all the painful and happy memories from his past that had been so forcefully remembered. He didn't care about his brother, or Mrs. Hudson, or anyone at that moment. In his high flying and rush of endorphins and drugs, he didn't even care about John who sat just in the other room trying to figure out how to apologize and fix things with his flatmate. He simply didn't care anymore.

At least that's what he told himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I am sososososo sorry, I was trying for daily updates for, like, the next week and a half. But then I kinda broke my computer Wednesday morning when I haven't even really had time to work on this chapter, and then I had to wait until Thursday to get a new laptop which I then spent the night trying to figure out Windows 8 and all of that. And then Friday I was busy morning to night. So here it is now. And I promise you all, I will post again tomorrow if nothing else.**

**Anyway, thank you all for your amazing, lovely support. Please R&R, and I do hope you enjoy :)**

John began to worry when Sherlock didn't come out of his room for the rest of the evening, but he also knew there wasn't much good he could do through the door. No, he needed to be able to talk to Sherlock face to face if they were going to set things right between them once again. Which John had no doubt they'd do, he only doubted how long it would take, and with the current case being directly targeted towards his flatmate, John wanted to remedy things as soon as possible.

The doctor opted to spend his time waiting for Sherlock reviewing the file Lestrade had given him, but he fared no better than the Yard at deciphering the hidden meanings and messages. Soon he turned his attention to his computer, checking his blog and email, but that only served to force his attention back to complexity that was Sherlock Holmes and his growing concern for the man.

Sure, the consulting detective had always had his odd habits and mannerisms, but lately John had noticed minute changes. Sherlock seemed more withdrawn, even for a self-proclaimed sociopath (a claim which John and Lestrade knew was complete bullocks). John had noticed him fidgeting from time to time, especially when something even remotely emotional came up. Sherlock had been spending more and more time isolated and locked in his room, which had Sherlock been any other human being, John would've merely assumed meant he was simply tired and wanting to catch some rest. But John knew Sherlock, knew his bizarre sleep patterns that always kept sleep to an absolute physical minimum for the detective, especially during a case like this one. Sherlock had also been eating a considerable amount less than even a few weeks ago, and it showed in the way Sherlock had taken to consistently wearing a belt, lest his pants hang too low or fall completely. John had begun worrying endlessly about his friend as he watched him slide into something he didn't even know about, let alone comprehend.

And that was ignoring the complete mind fuck John had gone through that day in regards to what he knew of his flatmate. His infuriating, brilliant, asinine, arrogant, beautiful flatmate. The one man that brought actual excitement and purpose to the doctor's life, what with the constant danger and mystery that revolved around everything the man did. John loved watching the genius as he suddenly came to some conclusion that always appeared to be constructed out of air and baited breath. He adored the way Sherlock would pour everything into his violin, playing out his inner thoughts and feelings along the sweet strings, only ever pausing to record a phrase that had truly struck Sherlock as he played and composed without end. He loved to try and figure out the narcissistic git as he delved into his magnificent mind palace. He'd even become accustomed to the insane outbursts during one of Sherlock's bored phases. He loved all of it.

He loved Sherlock.

But that didn't necessarily make it any easier to talk to and communicate with the detective. No, John found he still had the same difficulties in speaking with him that he did when they first met all those years ago. He would sometimes be at a complete loss as to how to approach a topic, especially when it dealt with any amount of bloody fucking emotions.

Like earlier today. When John screwed up and hurt Sherlock. And was now struck trying to desperately figure out any way that might help fix it. But after a few hours of crap telly and reading some horror he had randomly picked up, John was no closer to solving his mess, nor did Sherlock appear to be any closer to coming down and having another lovely, dramatic chat. So John simply stood, arching and cracking his back, before turning off the telly and heading up to his own room.

As he got into bed, he hoped he hadn't hurt Sherlock too badly and that things would be better by morning.

Sherlock came back to a loose state of consciousness several hours later with an intense throbbing in his upper legs. He slowly sat up from where he had slumped over in the bed, willing the absolutely hellish headache away. The more he came to, the worse the pain in his legs became, until he was forced to open his eyes into the darkened room. His eyes immediately fell on the black box in the middle of the bed and then on to his legs where he could just make out the self-inflicted wounds.

He groaned, rolled towards the side of the bed and turned on the table lamp, quickly slamming his eyes shut as the soft glow managed to severely worsen his headache. Slowly he reopened his eyes to try and see just how much damage he'd inflicted in his distraught state. He saw the soaked towel and immediately knew that he'd have to throw that, and most likely the sheets as well, out before John saw them. Then he looked at the actual cuts–gashes, really– and cringed.

The first two, the lesser ones on his right thigh, were only a few centimeters across, somewhat deep, but already appeared to be knitting together acceptably. The other two cuts were a more serious matter. They were easily twice as long and twice as deep as the first too, if not worse. And Sherlock could still see small amounts of blood seeping from the wound, which also happened to be nowhere near closed. No, they were bad. And Sherlock could see that. But he also couldn't go anywhere or see anyone without Mycroft or worse, John, finding out. Sure, he could try to slip the cameras and he could even fake the records, but still, the doctors would ask questions as to how he got these, which would also be seriously redundant questions since the answer was so damn obvious.

Sherlock quickly calculated and weighed his options, but after several minutes of thinking and the continued worsening of the throbbing, he sighed and made his decision. Which really wasn't much of a decision since he didn't sincerely have many choices: go to a doctor and risk others finding out, try for some underground doctor and risk all the nasties from that, ignore it (hardly possible), or simply try and fix it up himself. He'd done it before, albeit on far smaller and less extreme injuries, and he had all the supplies he needed, including some local anesthetic he'd lifter during one of his trips to St. Bart's.

Sherlock hissed as he swung his legs to the edge of the bed. He went to stand slowly but the moment he placed any amount of weight on his legs at all, he collapsed, the pain burning through his thighs, up his back, and sparking across his eyes. He gasped as he tried to regain control over himself and almost will the horrible pain away. But as he tried to rise once again, he couldn't help the moan that escaped from his lips, silently praying that John didn't, or better yet couldn't, hear it.

At this point, Sherlock knew just how pointless it was to try and stand, at least until he got himself stitched back together, so he slowly crawled to his bathroom, a thin sheet of sweat forming across his entire body as he fought through the pain. Once inside the bathroom, he opened the cabinets below the sink and retrieved his first aid kit that was a little more than just first aid.

With it in hand, he pain-stakingly crawled back to the bed and somehow managed to roll himself on top without putting any more pressure or weight on his injured thighs. His quickly set to work sterilizing and preparing all of his tools and supplies, meticulously working his way through the whole lot, knowing how damn important it was he fix his mess, his injuries, lest someone accidently finds out just what has kept Sherlock Holmes going for all these years behind closed doors.

He quickly prepared his legs, cleaning and sterilizing the skin with rubbing alcohol then iodine, hissing violently at first until the alcohol hit the deepest and most sensitive part of the wounds. He clenched his teeth as tightly as his jaw would allow, trying in vain to hold back his moans as the alcohol did its job. Tears falling from the corner of his eyes from the pain, he quickly moved on, administering the anesthetic to only his left thigh first, before threading the needle for the stitches. Once he was sure his left leg was fairly numbed, he began making slow, calculated stitches, gathering up as much flesh as he could as he tried to bring the two sides together. His stitches were well done, if not a little shaky, and once he felt he'd done all he could on that leg, he smeared some cheap anti-biotic ointment on it and moved on to his right leg, repeating the process almost exactly.

Sherlock knew his legs were still numb as he tried to stand for a second time. He had to lean most of his weight on the bed and then the wall as he went to flip the switch for the overhead light. Flooding the room with artificial light, Sherlock was able to see the extent of the mess he had made. Cocaine paraphernalia lay everywhere and alongside his medical supplies. He quickly got back on his bed and began the tedious process of cleaning, organizing, and putting away all of his horribly illicit things, including things he had left dirty and abandoned the night before.

By the time he had finished, he could feel the anesthetic wearing off and the throbbing return in earnest. Sherlock knew he had to act fast before the pain became completely debilitating, so he found one of the previously discarded phones and typed out a quick text.

_Need a fix, not the usual. Rx pain killers?—SH_

_Yeah, Ive got some. When + where?_

_Meet in 20 at the park as usual.–SH_

_No prob man. C u there_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Evan's utter lack of English grammar skills but didn't truly expect much better from him; he was a lower class dealer than he was used to dealing with, but he also happened to know that not only was Sarah, he usual dealer, visiting family up North, but she also didn't tend to deal too heavily in prescription drugs. So that really only left Evan for Sherlock to turn to. He knew he needed some high strength painkillers, but also anti-biotics, which were far, _far_, more difficult to come by in the black market and getting them from a doctor clearly wasn't an option because that would involve a may lay of questions Sherlock was prepared or willing, or even ready, to answer. He cursed himself for not thinking to lift that from St. Bart's along with the anesthetic. But Sherlock just counted it among his many other, truly endless, mistakes that he had made in his life.

Once everything was securely back in his elegant black box, he replaced it, and everything else minus the phone he needed in order to contact Evan, back into its cubby. He found the picture where it lay on the floor by the end of the bed and gently put it back in its place as well, extremely thankful it hadn't gotten broken with everything that he had done and been going through last night. He didn't know how he'd explain the broken picture hanging on the wall or the hole hidden behind it. And for another time, Sherlock prayed he'd never have to.

He then moved quickly, knowing just how little time he had before the anesthetic completely wore off, and grabbed a clean set of clothes. He went into the bathroom but instead of a shower, opted for a wipe down, hitting the hot spots and making sure his hair didn't look too greasy or worse for wear. Once that was done, he pulled on his clothes and appeared completely put together within ten minutes, the skill of speed-dressing long since mastered. He brushed his teeth and put on deodorant, trying to make sure he didn't miss anything that John might catch up on; from what Sherlock could tell, the army doctor was in the sitting room, most likely drinking his morning tea and reading the paper (or watching that god-awful trash telly) before his noon shift at the clinic.

So Sherlock had to walk right past him. And he knew that John would start talking to him, then ask him where he was going, then get all concerned when he gave non-specific, non-committal answers. Want to talk about what had happened the day before. But Sherlock had to keep him out of this. Completely. Which was normally so easy since he'd usually always meet his dealers in the dead of night when John had long since fallen fast asleep. But after yesterday, Sherlock knew John would be even pushier, more insistant, when it came to cornering Sherlock to _talk_. Sherlock loathed to even think of that awful conversation to come, especially with the case and his legs now and everything else. He just didn't need anything else throw into his life at that moment.

So Sherlock sincerely hoped that John wouldn't catch on to the little errand he was about to run. God, did Sherlock hate when he couldn't simply do a night meet up for his drugs and paraphernalia like usual. It worked well for everyone involved. Meet at the alley approximately 9.67 blocks from his flat, go behind the dumpster, get the drugs from Evan, or occasionally Louis when Evan couldn't make the drop. Or, in the case of Sarah, meet up for a very earlier morning breakfast, talk, flirt, eat, pay, leave, hug goodbye and exchange the drugs and money during the hug. No one ever saw or noticed. It was a damn good setup for everyone.

But there were hiccups and bumps with that setup from time to time. Like now.

So Sherlock grabbed a couple ibuprofen, swallowing them dry, as well as putting on his shoes, before unlocking his bedroom door and exiting his room for the first time in almost 24 hours. He moved as fast as his silent feet would carry him, hoping so very desperately that John would be napping or might have already left or just simply wasn't paying attention.

But those vain hopes were quickly dashed when John bade him good morning.

"Morning Sherlock, good to see you up and about. I've looked over the files Lestrade gave us but I couldn't do any better than Yard, I'm afraid." John looked over at Sherlock, smiling pleasantly but nervously as he quickly looked over and analyzed his best mate, clearly trying to gauge his mental and emotional state and whether or not it'd be worth it to try and have a serious talk with him or if it'd be better for John to just wait. The doctor decided on the latter.

"Yes, morning, I'll have to have a look at the files once I get back." Sherlock muttered in response, trying to quell this conversation before it went anywhere and especially before it revealed anything.

"You're going out? Where to? And do you want me to come along as back up?" John immediately perked up at hearing that they might have a lead on the case or anything exciting to do period, his shift at the clinic momentarily forgotten. To John, at least.

"I'm afraid it's just a quick run to check on some things. And I do believe you have a shift at the clinic in an hour, so I'm also afraid that you wouldn't be able to join me anyway." Sherlock took on his most bored, disinterested voice that he could manage with the dull throbbing in his thighs slowly becoming ever more prominent. But John picked up on his barely noticeable distress, having known Sherlock for far too many years not to pick up on such basic things as shifts in his flatmate's body language and intonation.

But Sherlock ignored his concerned stare, choosing instead to don his jacket, scarf, and gloves and hurriedly dashing out the down and down the street before John had any true chance to notice the slight limp and grimace that now adorned Sherlock's physical being.

But Sherlock trained John well, the doctor frowning deeply as he watched his flatmate walk out the door.

Sherlock walked at an abnormally fast pace even though it brought a visible limp to his step because he knew taking his time could be disastrous on his current drug run. Because there's no way Evan could risk coming and helping him walk, let alone walk back to 221B. And there was no way Sherlock would risk calling John for help and having him start with his anxious questions.

So even though he knew he was likely pulling at the fresh stitches and simply irritating the injuries that much more, he kept up his pace until he reached a small park a few blocks from his home–the agreed upon meet up for daytime runs and drops. He made his way towards their specific meeting place–an old bench near an oak tree–and sat down, thankfully taking his weight off of his over-stressed legs.

He severely hoped this meeting would go well, and that Evan had what he needed in the first place. Which Sherlock knew he most likely did. But he was still nervous. He knew he had fucked up this time. He'd gone far too deep and now he was paying the price. He only hoped this was the only price, that the universe wouldn't continue to make him pay or make him pay some horribly high price for his own stupidity. But Sherlock also knew the universe didn't exactly favor him and his life.

Sherlock waited for about 10 minutes before he saw Evan approaching from the South side of the small park. He was wearing his standard garb: dark wash jeans, black hoodie with a band shirt underneath, no doubt, cigarette hanging from his mouth, 00 gauges filling his stretched lobes, and beat up kicks on his feet. Exactly what most would expect a drug dealer to look like, instead of say, Sarah's posh appearance and attitude.

Evan nodded his head in acknowledgement as he and Sherlock made eye contact, with Sherlock politely returning the nod. Evan sat down right next to Sherlock and simply sat for a moment, watching the joggers run by and the parents trying desperately to bustle their little ones in the correct direction. Evan knew Sherlock appreciated exactness, quiet, and discretion. Which is why he finished his cigarette before even bothering to turn to Sherlock, and even then he turned towards him as if to ask for another cigarette and a light. A simple exchange, a low life asking to bum a cig from a stranger, nothing exciting or noteworthy to anyone looking in from the outside.

"Hey mate, got 'nother cigarette I could bum off ya?" Evan asked with his heavy accent shining through and making Sherlock cringe inside. Yes, he definitely preferred dealing with Sarah.

"Sure," Sherlock drawled as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He pulled two out, one for himself to try and calm his strained nerves and one for Evan, both for appearance sake and out of courtesy to his dealer and associate. While Sherlock didn't always enjoy Evan's company, he was nice enough and had been extremely useful on cases from time to time. And he was a damn good contact in Sherlock's underground network, always good for the latest information and gossip.

Evan gratefully took the offered cigarette and lit it himself before taking a slow inhale of the toxic smoke. Sherlock did much the same, though with a more elegant hand. They sat together in companionable silence for another moment before Evan finally spoke up as to their actual reason for being there. Though to an outsider, it would still look innocent enough, just a guy making kind small talk with the guy that'd been nice enough to let him bum a smoke.

"So, why da sudden switch up from ya usual, if ya don't mind me askin'?" Evan leaned against the back of the bench, arms draped behind them.

"Actually I do, but if you must know, it's for a case I'm working on." Which was true enough, if he stretched the truth a bit. He needed to be able to work on the case, period. Which he wouldn't be able to do if the pain got as bad as it had been earlier, which Sherlock also knew wasn't even the beginning of the pain that he'd experience if he was walking around all day which he was apt to do on a case like this one. So yeah, the drugs were for a case. Sort of.

"No worries, mate, no worries. And ay', you know I ain't one t' judge anyway. So what ya lookin' t' 'ave? 'ave anythin' specific in mind?" Evan took a slow intake from his cigarette before exhaling and turning to look directly at Sherlock for only the second time since he sat down. Even he knew what one of Sherlock's thinking faces looked like so he patiently waited for an answer he knew would be far too specific for almost any dealer, let alone junkie, to manage. But then again, this was Sherlock and Evan knew nothing was a normal take for this particular client.

After a few moments, Sherlock inclined his head towards Evan. "Oxycotin or morphine. Whichever one you have enough of to last for a month or so. Do you have either, or both, of those drugs? On you?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow, partly anxious to hear that yes, he did have the drugs, and partly curious to see if he would actually risk bringing such drugs with him.

"Yeah mate, course I got 'em. I kinda figured dat if ya callin' me, it wa'n't for no pussy shit. Na, I figured you was going for some'in' a little stronger than dat. But mate, dat is some heavy shit, man, gotta be careful wit' it; I really ain't need one o' my best clients OD'ing on me now."

"I can assure you, Evan, I won't be OD'ing any time soon. No, this does have a slight medical purpose, not a recreational one. And besides that, they're both opiate derivatives, something my system is very much used to, though hopefully not so much so as to render these drugs ineffective." Sherlock considered his heroin intake and tolerance since he'd first had it, weighed those facts against what he knew of his body, and then against what he knew of the drugs he was currently seeking. No, he should be fine, the drugs should still work efficiently enough to serve their purposes and keep him going until the wounds had healed.

"Good t' 'ear. Now, I got enough of da oxycotin to last ya a month if ya are actually takin' it as a doc would prescribe. Howeva' if ya lookin' for enough t' take da edge off o' life, I'd 'ave t' throw in some morphine as well. Which is it, mate?" Evan stamped his now smoked out cigarette on the bottom of his boot before flicking the butt towards a nearby trashcan, missing it entirely and causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

"I'll take the Oxycotin you have, as well as some extra morphine on top. The usual drop process?"

"Wouldn't 'ave it any other way, mate." Evan smiled at Sherlock before going to stand, but Sherlock paused him for a moment, seeing no reason to waste any opportunity for information on a case.

"One more thing: have you heard anything recently about a new cut of cocaine circulating? And old cut, perhaps? Well known? Like Kixus?" Sherlock leveled Evan with his eyes so that he would immediately know if his dealer, and yes friend from time to time, was lying or hiding something from the detective.

Evan gave him a confused look before he answered, "Nah mate, I ain't heard not'in' 'bout no 'Kixus' or anyt'ing new on da coke market. Why ya askin'?" Despite their history, Evan leveled Sherlock back, suspicion filling his eyes and posture.

Sherlock shook his head and looked away at a family on a day out. "No reason, simply curious if there was any gossip or whispers. What about robberies? Specifically a recent string of robberies?" Sherlock looked back at Evan, remembering that part of the reason Sherlock _did_ work with him was because he was one of the few people that wasn't afraid to challenge or call out Sherlock if he was asking too much or over-stepping some boundary or line.

"Yeah, I 'eard 'bout 'em, but I ain't know much 'bout 'em, jus' some sod tryin' t' make a name fo' 'imself or some'in'. But I take it you wantin' me t' keep a look out for any info 'bout 'em. And I guessin' for dis 'Kixus' as well. 'ight mate, I got ya covered, and I'll be sure t' keep an ear out fo' ya."

"I would very much appreciate it, thank you. And if you do happen to come across something or hear anything, you know how to get a hold of me." Sherlock gave a small smile as Evan stood, shaking Sherlock's hand (where Sherlock discreetly handed him the appropriate amount of money for the drugs) and bidding him good bye, once again looking like a fairly innocent exchange between strangers to the passive outside observer. Evan went towards the trashcan, reaching for the cigarette butt that had missed and picked up his litter. But as he did so, his wallet fell out, causing the man to curse, before he bent down to pick it, and anything that had fallen out, up off the ground. No one would notice as he quietly and nonchalantly placed a small baggie on the ground under a take-away container that had also missed its mark going into the trashcan. Slowly Evan stood and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock waited another few minutes, just sitting and watching the world go by, learning and deducing as much as he could about the passing strangers and enjoying yet another cigarette, before he stood and moved towards the trashcan to throw his own cigarette butts out. Once he had, he bent and picked up the take away container (as well as the baggie of drugs) and throwing it away as well, looking everything like a model citizen concerned about the well being of his city, an idea which Sherlock scoffed at.

Now with his drugs covered, Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street, the pain in his legs impeding him the farther he went. He was extremely grateful to Evan and his endless supply of black market drugs because, even though the drugs were always a lesser cut than Sarah's, he usually had whatever you wanted, however strange or out there it was. Sherlock was partly curious as to what a drug raid on Evan's place would yield–just how many drugs did the young dealer keep stocked at a time?

Sherlock shook his head, already knowing what most of the answer was. The lanky detective pulled his jacket closer to his body as a brisk wind forced its way through the streets of London. As the wind continued to assault Sherlock, he felt its bitter coldness licking at the wounds on his thighs, causing him to hiss and clench his jaw, trying hard to ignore the pain just until he could get back to the flat and start taking the medicine. Which he knew wasn't going to be fun.

He hated taking opiates of any form, variety, or strength when working a case, however mundane it may be, because it slowed his mind so ridiculously much. And he knew that John, and probably Lestrade, would immediately notice. But he had to hope that something as simple as say, the flu, would be ample cover from getting caught with the drugs. And everything else. No to mention the fact that Sherlock would have to take the meds every few hours, and since John was usually a constant by his side during a case, that would make sneaking the pills that much more difficult. But he was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and if he couldn't manage it then not even Satan himself would be able to hide it.

So Sherlock merely continued his walk until he came upon 221B where he opened the creaky, old door and, grimacing, made his way up the blasted flight of stairs. He entered the sitting room, noted John still sitting with the local newspaper, but Sherlock turned abruptly and went towards his room again. He knew John had seen him as he heard his flatmate call after him.

"Oi! Sherlock! Lestrade called, said there was another robbery; asked us to get down to the scene ASAP. Sherlock? Did you hear me? There's a crime scene and a frustrated Lestrade waiting for us. I tried texted you but you never responded. Sherlock?"

But Sherlock ignored his concerned friend as he locked the door to his bedroom. He made his way towards the hiding space of his black box and pulled it out. He quickly went into the bathroom, returning with a glass of water, and took off his trousers. The cuts were red and angry, sore to the touch, and bleeding ever so slightly in some areas. Sherlock heaved a sigh out before pulling his trousers back on and removing a single oxycotin from the faux-prescription bottle.

He took a moment, simply looking at the pill, hesitating to take something he knew was going to limit his mind. But another part of his mind reminded him that that was the point, and it's what got him into this mess in the first place. He wanted everything to just go away, he wanted it all to just stop for a little while, wanted all the thoughts and feelings and down right _pain_ to dull down for just a little while. So Sherlock stopped hesitating and threw the pill in his mouth, downing the water after it.

He flopped backwards on his bed for only a moment before he heard John knocking at his door.

"Sherlock? Are you alright, mate? Seriously, Lestrade wanted us there twenty minutes ago, Sherlock. Do you need me to come in there or something? Are you in trouble Sherlock? Does this have to do with the case? You know you can tell me, Sherlock, whatever it is." John spoke through the doorway, his concern shining through so bright it hurt Sherlock's chest to know just how much his dear friend didn't know and just how much the good doctor would never be able to help him.

He blinked back tears he hadn't realized were there before leaping out of his bed, quickly putting away all his precious paraphernalia, and swiftly unlocking and opening his door in one swift motion, startling the army doctor on the other side who just stared open-mouthed at the detective for a moment, fist still raised mid-air to knock yet again.

"Well, what are we waiting for then?" Sherlock asked as he pushed past John and moved towards the door, jacket and scarf still on from his previous outing.

"Um, you, actually. We were waiting on you." John muttered under his breath as he followed his flatmate out the front door of their flat, becoming even more uneasy and concerned about his best friend. And rightly so.


	6. Chapter 6

This time it was John's turn to stare out the window of the cab as they made their way to the latest robbery. Sherlock was looking over the file for the first time, not even noticing that John had had the forethought to bring it with them in the first place. Sherlock appeared to be deep in thought from the moment they got into the cab and John handed him the folder. But John was quick to note that this 'thinking face' was different than normal, as if Sherlock was struggling more, and John severely hoped it was simply because of the emotional aspects of the case and not some other, darker, more damning reason.

John began to bite his nails, an old, ingrained habit from his childhood that he only ever indulged in when he was extremely stressed. Like now. But Sherlock didn't notice. No, he was absorbed in the file, loosely navigating the meanings and cursing himself for being so weak the night before. For being weak and being a complete bloody idiot. For now having to take painkillers that so completely dulled his mind. For his mind being so muddled already that he kind of didn't care that he wasn't making all that much progress on the case. For not making _any_ real progress on the case.

Evan's ignorance of anything unusual in the underground was worrying to Sherlock. Evan had always had an amazing ear and intuition when it came to what was going on in his own illicit world and especially on his own drug turf. But he knew nothing of any note about the robbery and his and Marge's old mix, Kixus (her name for it, not his) not resurfacing meant that this really was specifically aimed at him. And only him. And that worried him because that meant possibly putting John at risk to, which was something he despised with all his being.

After a few more minutes of driving, the cab pulled up to an off-license swarming with cops, gawkers, and news stations. John hoped out of the cab rather quickly, as if trying to make up for their more than slight tardiness, while Sherlock slowly pulled himself from the cab, finally starting to feel the full, dulling effects of the pain killers. He stood there for a moment with the cab door open, before shaking his head and paying the cabbie. John noticed this when he turned to find Sherlock not already racing and bouncing towards the crime scene and having half the case solved.

John continued to feel the deep nagging sensation growing and eating at the center of his stomach. He knew something was wrong with Sherlock, and not the normal not eating, not sleeping like a normal person issue. No, something was deeply, sincerely, horribly wrong with his best mate. But John also hadn't the slightest bloody clue as to how to approach it since he couldn't even begin to fathom just what it was that had Sherlock so upset and thrown off.

So he simply chose to follow his friend as he lazily made his way past the police tape and into the front of the store where a pissed-off Lestrade was waiting.

"Where the bloody hell have you two been! I called almost 30 bloody minutes ago!" Lestrade was clearly frustrated and furious at the pair's repeated lateness and he very much wanted to make those feelings known to them as they glimpsed over the crime scene.

"Sorry, had a bit of trouble with the traffic and–"John started to apologize and explain (make excuses) for their tardiness but Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"It's my fault; I was following a lead and trying to get some information from an old contact. I didn't have my phone on me and was away from the flat so I didn't know you so kindly requested our presence until about 15 minutes ago when I arrived back at the flat from my errand and was informed that you had texted. So please don't start with the whole 'irresponsibility' and 'rudeness' lecture, Lestrade." Sherlock answered rather flippantly before moving farther into and around the mess of a crime scene. Both John and Lestrade were surprised not only at Sherlock's apology, but also his amount of simple honesty and almost businesslike manner. They both knew Sherlock's general form was to correct, chide, rant, and belittle anyone who challenged him and his methods, regardless of if they were friends or merely Anderson. But that wasn't what he did and it caused the DI and doctor to exchange an exceedingly worried look between themselves as Sherlock 'did his thing'.

"Well, then, did you contact or lead provide anything useful?" Lestrade asked somewhat flustered by both Sherlock's unusual behavior and by the whole case in general.

"Yes and no." Sherlock answered bluntly. He was having trouble focusing on the crime scene already and the conversation they were trying to carry on with him only made it that much more difficult and annoyed Sherlock fiercely. But he hoped they wouldn't notice his attitude and annoyance. Perhaps they would put it off as him trying to think if he asked them to leave or be quiet. Except John. He couldn't truly ask John to leave without inciting a considerable amount of suspicion from the whole of Yard, let alone Lestrade and John himself. So Sherlock tried to muscle through as much as he could without missing anything from the scene. Sadly, the universe was not on his side today.

"What do you mean 'yes and no'?" John questioned slowly. Watching his mate work, he noticed Sherlock was slower than normal, less inquisitive almost, and he wondered once again what was causing these drastic changes in the detective.

Sherlock sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and turned towards John and Lestrade. "I mean, he knew nothing. Absolutely _nothing_ about the robberies, or a new coke dealer, or about Kixus coming back on the market. And trust me when I say that this particular contact knows _everything_ when it comes to drugs, dealers, the illicit drug trade, and general gossip in his field of employment. And he knew _nothing_. So it was very unhelpful. Except that it means that this, whatever this is and whatever it means, is directed solely at me. It is for me, only ever me. Though its purpose for targeting me is still a bit beyond me at the current moment, I have no doubt in my mind whatsoever that it aims to do much the same as Moriarty and all of his ploys." Sherlock stared down the two men standing a few feet across from himself, silently challenging them.

John was quiet for a moment before looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes with a strange intensity that made Sherlock shiver. "He aims to destroy you." There was a dead certainty in John's words and they all knew just how strongly the truth of them rang out.

"Yes." Sherlock continued to hold eye contact with John for several moments longer, rivaling John's own intensity with his own, as if calling John's bet in a mental game of Texas Hold 'em. They continued until Lestrade awkwardly cleared his throat besides John.

"Yes, now, out! Everyone, out! I need to think!" Lestrade sighed and motioned for everyone to leave, all of the Yard being extremely familiar with Sherlock's typical routine for handling crime scenes and bodies. When almost everyone was out except for Lestrade, who spared him one last look before turning to leave, and John who simply watched the thinking man in the center of the room. But Sherlock's next comment made everyone pause.

"You too, John. I need to think, and I think you can understand why even more privacy and focus is required for this case." Sherlock was quiet, examining a set of broken glass from several dropped liquor bottles, but he hoped John would understand and not question it too horribly much. But of course he did, internally at least, still respecting Sherlock and his personal brand of madness and brilliance on the outside.

"Okay. Just call if you need anything. We'll be right outside the door." John whispered back before joining, and politely pushing, Lestrade and a few others out of the front door of the vandalized business.

Once everyone had left, Sherlock took a deep breath and massaged his temples, knowing the day was only going to get worse with everything he had, and was about to, discover and figure out. And with how John and Lestrade were looking at him it was clear they had noticed something was off with him. Sherlock only hoped they hadn't noticed everything that was off of late–that maybe he still had some time before they called in Mycroft as reinforcement and Sherlock was potentially found out.

So Sherlock, who still held the case file from when John had handed it to him in the cab, opened the folder and began thinking, observing, and connecting the dots.

He started with the first scene in the folder. The pharmacy. He noted the pictures that documented the items stolen and damaged. The entire stock of Doritos chips, all thrown to the floor and smashed. Next was the wall of Covergirl makeup products. Bashed in with a bat. Then the candy section, with every bag of chocolate slashed through with a knife and all the candy scattered across the aisle. Then the center piece: the entire shelf of pregnancy tests all thrown to the floor, smashed to bits, and lit of fire. With the coffee stirrer in the center of the ashy mess. Sherlock continued to look at it, his muddled brain desperately trying to make the connection.

Then he checked the location and name of the pharmacy.

Sherlock staggered back until he hit the wall of the building, his heart clenching and his brain finally making its first true connection of the day as memories swept over him.

"_Sherlock, we need to talk. I think I might be pregnant." Marge said as she burst into their bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. Sherlock slowly set down his violin and turned towards Marge, his genius brain still not quite comprehending. But then he looked at Marge–her tense stance, the way she had her arms crossed protectively, almost defensively, in front of her, the insistant tapping of her foot–all told Sherlock that she was both extremely serious and very, very nervous._

"_I suppose this means we need to go run a quick errand." Sherlock replied as he grabbed his jacket and scarf and followed Marge out the front door of their flat._

_Sherlock awkwardly made his way through the pharmacy with Marge, bashfully heading towards the 'family planning' aisle. Marge beat him there, though he wasn't exactly _trying_ to get there quickly. He knew it wasn't his; he and Marge had never had sex. But it was close enough to Skip's death that it very well could be his. Or it could be someone else's entirely–a thought which made Sherlock almost want to cry. Almost. Or she could merely be late, a side effect from her drug habit. But either way, they were now stuck standing in a local pharmacy as Marge surveyed the boxes of pregnancy tests. She finally found one she seemed to like, holding it up to Sherlock and giving him a noticeably worried smile, obviously trying to reassure at least one of them._

_Marge and Sherlock sat on their bed, waiting for the timer in the bathroom to go off and inform them if all hell was about to break loose in their lives. When it went off, Marge stood slowly and silently, but head still held high as she made her way into the bathroom. Sherlock held his breath for several moments as he listened to Marge move about in the bathroom only a few feet from him._

_Then Marge reappeared, a grin across her face. "Negative." She said, rushing over to Sherlock and kissing him passionately, which he eagerly returned, relieved beyond measure, before snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her down to the bed with him._

Sherlock leaned against the wall for several minutes trying to catch his breath. He didn't want to look at the next crime scene, the next set of pictures, because he already had a deep, desperate nagging as to where all of this might be going.

But still, he looked.

The next set of photos and evidence was from the robbery at the bank. Sherlock didn't make the same mistake with the previous scene, quickly looking at the name and location of the building. And his heart stopped once again. It was the exact same bank, tacky décor and all, that Sherlock and Marge had used time and time again to process and hide their drug money. And it didn't hurt that one of the tellers was a highly addicted client.

More memories swept through Sherlock, dropping him to his knees and scattering the file in front of him.

_He opened the door as Marge entered, admiring the view as he followed her inside their neighborhood bank. It was a small operation, with only 2 offices for helping customers and a max of 3 tellers at any given time. So it was perfect for what Sherlock and Marge required._

_Sherlock followed Marge up to the counter, loving the way her body looked in the tight blue dress sundress and sleek heels. He couldn't wait to get back to their flat and show her how much he truly did love that dress on her body. Or just her body in general._

"_Hello, I'd like to make a deposit April." Marge smiled at the clerk (client) and she passed over a stack of bills a centimeter thick. April merely returned her smile and took the pulled the stack over to her side of the counter._

"_Of course, ma'am." April replied with an even bigger smile as she began counting the bills, discreetly pulling the thin baggie of coke from the stack as she did so and sliding it up the sleeve of her blouse._

_Sherlock moved closer to Marge, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him as he kissed her shoulder. Marge smiled and leaned into him, turning and giving him a quick kiss before going back to watching April count out their money. _

_Once the bills were processed and deposited, Sherlock and Marge walked out of the bank hand in hand, and happily made their way back to their flat to celebrate their latest payday._

Sherlock looked down, finally realizing he had dropped the file, scattering the papers and photos. He rapidly gathered them back up and found the information for the next robbery, the library.

His heart continued its tormented plummet as he began to review the details in the file. He noted the books that were damaged and missing, where the center of it all was, and all the tiny yet damning things the Yard had obviously missed.

First and foremost, Sherlock noted what books were missing: _Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Slaughter-house Five, Of Mice and Men, Cat's Cradle, 1984_–all of the books he and Marge had gone back and forth forcing each other to read when they were hiding out within the library's welcoming arms.

And somehow, this person knew that. Very well. Because _Jane Eyre_, Marge's all time favorite book, was at the center of the destruction. In the center of a ring of burned carpet. With several slashes through the cover. And the baggie of Kixus and the coffee stirrer on top of it all.

Sherlock remembered when she first made him read the Victorian novel. And it had just made him love her all the more with her obsession with the spunky governess.

"_Come on, Sher, it's a classic!" Marge pushed his shoulder as she sat next to him at one of the numerous study tables throughout the building. They were hiding out from the world, or at least their world, once again because really? Who would look for a couple of junkies at the local public library? So that's where they were sitting at a random study table on a random Tuesday, and each with a stack of their favorites beside them. _

"_I'm sorry, but I simply cannot see the appeal of some swooning tart and her bitter, old boss having some drawn out love affair." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to convey his complete and utter apathy towards the novel._

"_Noooo! It's a beautiful romance about overcoming societal bullocks for love. And it's just a good book. So read it!" Marge picked up the novel and proceeded to shove it in Sherlock's face, slapping his hand away with the book as he tried to slap the book itself away. This caused both of them to fall into a fit of laughter which in turn caused them to be abruptly shushed by a nearby librarian._

_Sherlock settled before Marge and simply sat watching the divine, quirky creature in front of him. While he wasn't the most familiar with feelings and sentiment and caring, he knew he loved her, and that she loved him. It was obvious in the way he watched her dyed-black hair fall so elegantly over her shoulders, the way he watched her eyes dance with such light-hearted mirth as the corners of her eyes crinkled with laughter. He loved cataloging every available detail of his beloved partner, from the shape, curve, and texture of her lips to the way her masscara always left little black smudges on the top of her eyelid to the way her left eyebrow would occasionally rise ever so when something particularly puzzling came up. _

_Sherlock knew her better than anyone, and she knew him even better, so as he watched her go on and on about the beauty and strength of her adored novel, Sherlock smiled to himself and finally made direct eye contact with her._

"_Fine." Sherlock stated, startling Marge out of her monologue._

"_Wait, what?'Fine' What?" Marge asked, more than a little confused. Sherlock merely smiled wider at her and took the novel from her hand where she had been waving it back and forth._

"_I'll read the book. If it's truly that meaningful and important to you, then of course I'll read it." Sherlock reached the short distance across the table and took Marge's hand, gently rubbing small circles on her delicate skin. Marge beamed as she (quite dramatically) presented the worn and well-read novel to Sherlock, proud on her accomplishment at getting him to listen to her and his kindness and compassion in doing something he would have otherwise never done._

"_Good" was all Marge said in response, choosing instead to hand over the novel for Sherlock to begin reading as she found another novel to occupy her time much the same way. Sherlock gratiously accepted the book with a slight nod to acknowledge her dramatics before the couple set in a comfortable silence, both now engrossed in their own fanciful worlds._

As he was forced to remember all that had happened that day, he also quickly remembered the book the marge had picked up after Sherlock had begun reading _Jane Eyre_. _Of Mice and Men._ And here it was, in the crime scene photos, seemingly tossed to the side without any care or regard, partly hidden behind another stack. But Sherlock could see what the others couldn't.

Sherlock ripped the information from the next robbery from the stack of papers and his panic only increased. It was the off-license. Two blocks from one of their main drop spots. Where he and Marge would go after a good sell and buy either a nice bottle of wine or the hardest tequila they could find.

And this person knew that. And they knew what wines and brands they had always preferred. And from these pictures if not the others, it was clear to Sherlock that whoever was behind all of this meant violence of all kinds and severities.

Every bottle of every brand Sherlock and Marge had ever gotten after a good run was smashed to bits or simply missing entirely. The pictures showed broken glass soaking in blood red wine strewn in every aisle. The labels only partially readable but the arrangement was clear: all the broken bottles and spilled alcohol was leading towards the back refrigerators. Where Sherlock and Marge would occasionally grab a quick (or long) snog while selecting their purchases. It was a smash and grab with one hell of a message.

And a message that scared the shit of Sherlock. Because the one liquor of choice that he and Marge would always get when they were feeling particularly happy, a nice bottle of Jaeger, was absent. It wasn't on any of the shelves, nor among the broken bottles on the floor. No, it was simply gone. And it caused a deep panic to fill Sherlock. Because he was forced to remember what Marge had said on one of their many trips to that particular business. And it forced Sherlock straight to his knees.

_Sherlock wrapped his arm around Marge's waist as they sauntered into old Mickey's store, pockets full of a fair number of valuable things. Marge smiled sweetly at the clerk on duty, having gotten to know the young man as regular customers. The couple made their way to the back of the store, quickly grabbing a bottle of champagne because why not and a bottle of vodka. But as Sherlock made his way back towards the front to pay, Marge pulled his aside._

"_Not so fast there, tiger." She smiled a devilish little smile at him as she pulled him into a kiss, each of them holding a bottle of alcohol away from their body. Sherlock, flying just as high as Marge and the client thy had just left, returned the kiss feverishly, quickly nipping at Marge's bottom lip. She eagerly obliged Sherlock and let him take control, deepening the kiss and snaking his tongue into Marge's warm mouth. Sherlock pulled their bodies closer, pressing their hips together as he continued to explore Marge's mouth. _

_They only stopped after the clerk cleared his throat near them, causing them to jerk away from each other's mouth (but not from the rest of each other) and notice the young man (Jeremy) blushing awkwardly as he stood there with a box of merchandise that clearly needed to be shelved. Sherlock and Marge smiled before pulling apart and Marge leading the way down an adjacent aisle. Sherlock assumed they were again heading off to pay and leave (and continue their earlier occupations elsewhere) when Marge suddenly hung a left and went down another aisle._

"_Can't leave without some good, old Jaeger, now can we?" She grinned at Sherlock as she lifted the bottle from the shelf._

_Sherlock laughed at her general good mood and happiness and simply smiled back at her. "No, I suppose we can't, can we?" Sherlock replied quietly, his heart filling with a deep affection for the lovely, lithe thing in front of him. Marge returned his smile, seeming to sense his mood._

"_Yeah, I love you too, Sher, and I'll keep loving you, and this deliciosity, until the end of time. Or until they go out of business. But either way, you, me, and this bottle of Jaeger is all we'll ever really need, eh? Just us, always us, and no one can stop us. No one can ever separate us. Not now, not ever. Just us, for always." Sherlock could tell she was kicking it in her high, but he also knew that didn't make her words any less true. And he knew that he was terrible at words and always awkward trying to show her just how much he returned her feelings, how much he loved her too. _

_But Marge knew Sherlock, and she understood everything he was trying to say when he leant forward and gently laid a chaste kiss on her soft lips._

"_I know," was all she whispered back._

Sherlock felt his chest tighten. Jaeger, as strange, and even potentially trashy, as it was, was one of the core symbols of what they had. Sweet, with a kickback and an always interesting party afterwards. And someone had taken it. Separated it from the others. Was that what they were trying to do? Whoever was behind all of this? Were they trying to separate Sherlock from those around them? By bringing up his past? His secrets and all of the darkness in his life and soul?

Sherlock suddenly couldn't breathe as the panic continued to wash over him, strengthening in ferocity with every heartbeat.

"John!" Sherlock rasped out, hoping his friend could hear him from outside the store. And of course he did, as well as Lestrade, who both can rushing in, worried that something had happened.

"Sherlock! What wrong what's going on " John asked, concern flooding his voice and making a part of Sherlock want to cringe and hide, as the army doctor quickly knelt beside Sherlock. But Sherlock ignored him in exchange for looking up at Lestrade with wide eyes.

"The Jaeger! Where is it! Is it here!" Sherlock's voice began to rise in his panic as he started to get up to look for himself, but John held him back, forcing him back into a (slightly uncomfortable) kneeling position. John shared a look with Lestrade who quickly went to look for the item that seemed to have the world's only consulting detective in a complete meltdown.

John sat for a moment with Sherlock, whispering soothing nothings to him, when Lestrade came back into view besides them. Both John and Sherlock looked up at him with expectant eyes, but the DI merely shook his head.

This seemed to send Sherlock into a complete frenzy, painkillers, and all else forgotten. John and Lestrade rushed to restrain him and to try and calm him down, but to absolutely no avail. Finally, Lestrade was forced to call in Donovan with a pair of handcuffs to restrain the distraught man. But this simply caused him to completely deflate, shoulders and back going slack yet shaking slightly. It only took the three standing around him a few second to realize that Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath who could always find a way to just not give a shit and who could reduce a grown man to tears in seconds with his deductions, was crying before them. Sobbing, really.

The group stood frozen for a few stunned moments before John rushed forward and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He looked towards the front door of the off-license only to notice that a number of the police on sight kept glancing back and talking suspiciously amongst themselves. John looked to Lestrade for help, not wanting to parade Sherlock through the gossiping police let alone the paparazzi and public that had gathered outside the store. Even after the fall and everything that had happened with Moriarty, including his name eventually being cleared, Sherlock was still extremely popular and well known. Having him seen like this would not be good for any of them, something even Donovan seemed to understand or was at least too shaken up to say anything about.

"Greg, please for the love of God, tell me there's a back door we could go out." John gave his colleague and friend a desperate look before the DI nodded, causing John to breathe a very large sigh of relief.

"Uh, yeah mate, just head out the back. I'll pull my police car around. I know Sherlock doesn't like riding in them but I don't think he's in much of a state to notice much less care."

"Alright mate, and thank you." John gave a solid, warm-hearted clap on Lestrade's shoulder, still managing to fully support Sherlock and his more or less dead weight. Lestrade returned the gesture before turning and heading out the main door of the building.

John turned towards the back of the store, and presumably towards the back door, when he noticed Donvoan still standing there, a very confused and distraught expression written across her face. John gave her a thankful look –thankful for not making some comment or harassing Sherlock in his current state but most of all simply thankful for her help– and she seemed to understand, nodding in response. John spared a small smile before hauling his now only slightly shaking flatmate out the back door and into Lestrade's waiting cruiser.

Once Sherlock was securely and safely in the back seat with John sitting beside him, the good doctor had a moment to think everything over, and it made his very soul clench, all the things he had begun to notice. Like how Sherlock had become increasingly irritable. How he was eating and sleeping less and less, no matter how much John nagged and pushed and endlessly tried to make him. How he was constantly locked in his room doing God knows what, because John sure as bloody hell didn't know. How he seemed to be playing darker music on his violin more often of late. How even when he was with John, on a case or just sitting watching crap telly in the evening, he was never truly _there_ mentally.

And then this case. Finding out about Sherlock's past, even if it was only the small tidbit he and Lestrade had gotten and then the little extra about Marge he'd been able to get out of the infuriating genius, it was distressing and concerning. John had known he'd done drugs in his past–his profound knowledge of it which he'd displayed from time to time when it was relevant to a case–led the doctor to that conclusion long ago. But the way he spoke of it with him and Lestrade just…set off a nagging that John couldn't seem to quiet. And then that morning when he left to 'talk to a contact' just seemed too wrong to John. The hurry, the refusal when John asked if he could accompany Sherlock, the nervous state–it just felt wrong to John, not like the Sherlock he knew. Not like _his_ Sherlock.

And then there was the limp. To everyone else, Lestrade included, it wouldn't have been noticeable. But this was John and Sherlock for Christ's sake. There wasn't much that the other couldn't catch when something was off with the other. Which is why John noticed the limp. That hadn't been there the day before–John was bloody certain of that–but had been there the next morning. A limp that Sherlock had acquired sometime between when he left John after their slight spat and when he emerged the next morning.

A fact that had almost everything in John screaming that something was so very wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Sososososo sorry it's taken so long to update; college is pretty much endless reading assignments that take up exponential amounts of time. But hopefully a ridiculously long chapter will make up for that :)**

**Anyway, R&R as per usual and I hope you enjoy it!**

When the cruiser pulled up to 221B, John was surprised when Sherlock bounded out of the car and straight inside, dropping his former comatose-like state the instant the car slowed to a stop. John gave a strained look to Lestrade who merely nodded, acknowledging both his own and their mutual concern over their friend. But the look only lasted a moment before the good doctor bounded out of the police car after his best mate.

John raced up the stairs only to hear Sherlock's bedroom door slam shut and lock as John passed into the sitting room. He heaved a heavy sigh before turning to make a cuppa and sit in his chair. He hoped he might be able to amp up his own deductive skills to perhaps rival Sherlock's and figure out just what the bloody hell the mad genius was up to.

Sherlock was still in a slight state of panic when he locked himself in his room and was finally able to be alone. He quickly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the bottle of painkillers, downing two dry, before falling onto his bed. He lay there, not even bothering to take off his jacket, scarf, or even shoes, and slowly the tears began to come until they were absolutely relentless in their number and force.

Sherlock curled into himself, wishing so very desperately for all the memories of Marge and the damning pain that came with them would just go the fuck away. But they wouldn't. Just like how the pain in his legs wouldn't go away anytime soon. Or the pounding headache he was starting to get from the bloody case. Or the bloody case that brought all this shit up in the first goddamn place.

And all Sherlock wanted was just some quiet. Just some peace and quiet and contentness.

Which is why he slowly pulled himself up from where he lay curled up and made his way over to his Chinese piece at the head of his bed. He gently removed the art piece, setting it on the floor beside the bed, before eagerly reaching for his wonderful, illicit, black box. Setting it in the middle of the bed, Sherlock slowly stood, undressing down to only his pants, before taking his seat back in the center of his king size bed.

He grimaced as he looked down at the bright red, self-inflicted gashes on his thighs. The earlier outings had definitely not done them any good, in fact seeming to worsen them considerably. They were angry, warm, and seeping various fluids, but Sherlock also noted, with a relieved sigh, that the fluids were clear. For now. Which meant no infection. Yet. But they still didn't look anything approaching the words 'good' or even just 'okay-ish'. No, the wounds were bad, worse than Sherlock's original inventory of them, now that he was no longer crashing from his cocaine or trying to battle the extreme physical pain from them. And he was able to see just how shotty his stitches were, but they would/could hold, so he left them.

The detective pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some cotton balls, soaking each, and began gingerly trying to clean the individual injuries. He had to bite his cheek to keep from making any noises that could possibly alert John to anything if he was somewhere nearby. Once that was done, he did what he should have done, and would have remember to do under other circumstances, and wrapped each wound in the gauze that he always kept on hand for whenever he either went too deep or had too numerous to simply ignore.

Once that was done, Sherlock eagerly turned towards the baggie full of white powder. He quickly set up all the needed supplies and prepared his beloved drug. With the case turning out so terrible and ferocious, he needed every boost he could get in his thinking abilities and every emotional dulling aspect the sweet poison so kindly offered him. So filling the syringe, Sherlock made quick work of putting the belt around his upper arm before lovingly depressing the plunger into his waiting vein. It only took a few moments before Sherlock could feel the delicious singing in his veins and he sighed, head lolling to the side as he open up full access to his mind palace and began going over all the data, evidence, information, and memories he was able to pull regarding the string of robberies and vandalisms.

The brilliant genius remembered all the things he had noticed from the files he had looked over before accidently dropping them and going into full mental breakdown. He then pulled every single related memory, all of the times he and Marge had gone to each of the respective places, either together or on their own. He then went through the entire process of making Kixus and every occurrence of its making to see if someone could've found out that way. He went through all of their endless trips to the library and what they did/read during each visit, as well as why they were there in the first place.

Yet after sitting on his bed for almost two hours, he had made virtually no progress on identifying potential suspects. No one had known him and Marge that well, no one. Only Skip and Johnny, an old client, even came close, yet both had died some time ago; Skip to Manny's gun and Johnny to an overdose not too long after. Which also meant that neither would've even known about Kixus and some of the other aspects his and Marge's life that this perpetrator clearly did.

So after all of that effort and thinking, Sherlock was really no closer to solving anything than he had been before the cocaine. But he still truly appreciated the cocaine's beautiful numbing effects on his emotional side; while the drug sped up his already blazing trains of thought, it also made it so very much easier to simply push unwanted thoughts and feeling off into oblivion indefinitely.

After coming to a grandiose conclusion of nothing, Sherlock realized that John was probably wanting and waiting for them to talk about what had happened earlier at the off-license. Sherlock was dreading it something horribly fierce. But he also knew it was unavoidable and that he should probably go ahead and get it over with before John called in any kind of reinforcement, whether it be Mycroft, Lestrade, or hell, even Mrs. Hudson would not exactly be welcomed by the detective.

Sherlock put away his supplies, lethargy shining through the cocaine buzz due to Sherlock's complete unwantingness to face John and explain anything. Because as much as he may try and deny it, Sherlock knew that John was noticing things, and was becoming increasingly suspicious with every passing interaction between them. And as much as Sherlock needed and craved John and his beautiful presence, he also couldn't bear being around John when he was feeling so bloody fucking off–when he wasn't able to keep his perfect mask, his perfect façade, in place. He hated having the cracks and faults, his failures and imperfections out there for anyone to see if they were paying attention.

Unfortunately for the world's only consulting detective, Doctor John Watson was most certainly paying attention.

And currently waiting for said detective to emerge from the shadowy depths of his room. He had moved from his armchair to the couch, mindlessly watching crap telly, drinking his fourth cup of tea, and reviewing the past week in his mind for the seventh time since he arrived back at the flat. Each go through of the week and its events regarding Sherlock caused his heart to clench the slightest bit more.

John was more than well aware that his feelings for his flatmate were more than just those of a concerned friend, even a best friend. He cared so much for the difficult man but also knew just how much Sherlock loathed expressing and showing any modicum of sentiment, which made anything remotely involving the intricacies of their friendship virtually impossible to talk about when it came to emotions. Which therefore meant any discussion involving the advancement or progression of their relationship was simply impossible. And John deeply, truly loathed it with so much of his heart, especially as Sherlock seemed to be sliding further and further away from him, seemed to be tearing in its worry and commiserated pain. He just wished the bloody idiot would talk to him, let him help. But the former soldier also knew just how much people could hide when they didn't want to talk. The war and his fellow soldiers taught him that.

His musings were cut off though when he heard the click of Sherlock's door unlocking and his light steps as he slowly, reluctantly, exited his bedroom. Sherlock was wearing most of what he had been when he had disappeared into his room, less only his jacket, scarf, and sports coat. He shuffled over to his respective armchair, gently grabbing its arms and lowering himself by his arms, going as easy on his thighs as he could possibly manage, a display which John caught with a tightening of his lips and downcast thoughts.

Sherlock didn't look at the doctor, choosing instead to look out that seemingly beloved window that he always turned to, quite literally, whenever he was in deep thought, or trying to avoid a conversation, or both. Despite the fact that he was sitting relatively calmly, Sherlock's foot was bouncing and he couldn't seem to find an agreeable place or position for his hands. In this moment, Sherlock Holmes, always so calm and composed to those around him, couldn't stop his fidgeting. And John Watson picked up on it immediately.

"Sherlock, can we…can we please talk about what happened earlier–what you saw, what you know, who it is, maybe–just, anything, Sherlock, please. What's going on? And don't tell me it's just the case, or it's simply having to relive painful memories; I know it's more than that. I've lived with you for years now, and I've been learning from you that entire time, and while I may not be able to figure everything out as quickly as you and while I still may not see everything you do, I still do more than just bloody see–I _observe_, Sherlock, just like you. And I can see that there's something going on that you're not telling me about and honestly, it scares the bloody shit out of me, seeing you like this, so out of sorts and upset and hurt and I just–" John stopped mid-ramble and dropped his head into his hands, slowly shaking it back and forth. Sherlock looked over at him and it hurt his chest, his heart. His friend, his flatmate, _his John_, was so very distraught and upset because of him, and it caused his chest to fill with guilt once again at his unintended rudeness and harmful behavior that was hurting his brilliant, wonderful, _good_ doctor. Sherlock hated himself for causing John this pain.

John finally looked up, rubbing his face and running his hand through his already thoroughly messy hair. He made eye contact with Sherlock before continuing. "Sherlock, I'm just worried about you. A lot, actually. You're my best mate and I can't bear to lose you, not again, not after all that bloody fucking shit with Moriarty, Sherlock. So please, _please_, Sherlock, if you need something–_anything_– for the love of God, just tell me. _I will help you_. I _promise_ you that, Sherlock. But I know something's wrong, and if you're not talking to me about it, then I have a pretty good feeling that you're not talking to anyone about it period. And that's just…not good; you can't bottle up whatever it is–trust me. And even if I'm wrong and it is actually just this case and having everything from that time in your past brought up, then I'm still here for you, to listen and help you, because either way, whatever it may be, you need to fucking talk about it, Sherlock. So please, _**please**_, just help both of us out here." John let out a breath he didn't quite realize that he'd been waiting to release after he had waited so long to say everything. And yet, it wasn't even everything. It was just the start, the introduction to everything else he had waited these past few hours, perhaps years even, to say. To say what he knew Sherlock wouldn't want to hear: that John had actually noticed a lot more than Sherlock seemed to think. That John had noticed, and _wanted to help_, something they both knew no one else had ever offered the younger man.

Sherlock paused, for once actually thinking critically about what he was going to say. He needed to reassure John, ease his suspicions and doubts. And Sherlock could only think of one method to accomplish that–the truth. Or at least, parts of it.

The taller man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before partially ignoring John and turning back to his favorite window. "You're right, about part of it. This case is…extremely difficult…for me to deal with. Actually, I do believe I'd much rather be taking on Moriarty again–at least his games were a bit more fun and entertaining. No, I think earlier today proved that I'm not doing very well at handling this case, and today was only so bad because I was confronted with it all at once. And while this is not normally an issue, and actually preferred for most cases, it was simply overwhelming to see such a deep personal vendetta–because I have no doubt that this is what it is, I simply can't figure out _whose_ personal vendetta it is yet–and to see it so paraded and public when I would very much like to keep it and everything it represents a secret, and yes John, a secret even from you.

"Because everyone lies. Everyone has secrets. Including me–very much so including me–but it's more than that; they know so much about my private life that no one besides myself should ever know–that no one else really _can_–and I simply cannot figure out how that is. And honestly John, it does scare me, because I worked very hard and for a very long time, to wipe away as much of that part of my life as I could for a multitude of reasons. Yet this person, whoever they are, is doing everything in their power to undermine all my efforts. And I don't like it. It…greatly upsets me…" Sherlock drawled out the last sentence, unsure how he wanted to continue, let alone finish. But John seemed to understand.

"Sherlock, I understand that–_I do_–but I need you to tell me more; I can't help if all I know is that you're not exactly keen on having your past dug up and exposed. I need to know _**why**_. Can you understand at least that much? You don't have to tell me everything, but I also can't help you fight this person if I don't even know what all it is they're bringing to the fight." John sat forwards, resting his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped together in a loose attempt at pleading with his closed-off flatmate. John knew what he had to look like in that moment, but couldn't bring himself to care, only to try whatever it took to get Sherlock to respond how they both needed him to.

John just wanted to help, Sherlock _knew_ that–hell, part of him even _wanted_ that help– but it didn't change anything. Not really. Not in the end of it all. He didn't open up because no one ever wanted him once they saw even the small amount of all that he kept bottled up so very tightly. No one ever wanted to take the time to help him through and through. No, if they wanted to help, all they ever wanted to do was stick a damn band-aid on him and his problems. And that simply wasn't good enough. He needed someone who could take all of him, all of his faults and brokenness and be willing to actually sit through it all and help him come out the other side better–_whole_– but no one ever wanted that. They never wanted him. And they never would, that fact had already been proven to him over and over again. Because the moment Sherlock even began to open up to someone, they either high-tailed it out of there, or they were so violently and permanently taken from him. Like Marge.

And honestly, Sherlock didn't know which category John would fall under; they had already been through so much, after Moriarty and the Fall and coming back after everything, that Sherlock did truly doubt that John would simply up and run but he also truly believed that even John wouldn't be able to stand being around him after a certain point, after he told his flatmate the truth.

And Sherlock couldn't bear to be without his best friend. So it was simply easier to maintain their current state of friendship. Nothing more, nothing deeper, nothing else. Just what they already had. Only ever that.

Which also happened to be something Sherlock was damn certain would be tainted and changed forever if he told John even the slightest bit about all the drama and darkness that was in his fucked past and present.

So instead of indulging John and elaborating on his history, Sherlock merely ignored him turning back to the window, too bloody scared, confused, proud, and just straight nervous to look at the man sitting only a meter away from him, let alone tell just how fucked up and damaged his own best mate was. The detective was not used to being confronted like this, about his own self and his own emotions, and he very much disliked it.

John could sense that Sherlock was closing up again and decided to ignore that part of the discussion for now, instead choosing to move on to some more of the specifics from earlier that day. "Okay, you don't have to tell me, though I think we both know it'd be a better idea–" Sherlock snorted at this but John choose to continue speaking without acknowledging him, "but you have to tell me about earlier, at the crime scene, because you know Lestrade and the whole of the Yard are going to be breaking down that door pretty sooner demanding to know just what it was that you figured out that seemed to be so damn bad and upsetting. Lestrade's probably down there holding them off for now, but even he is going to give into his curiosity and do his job eventually, Sherlock. So why don't you tell me just what it was that you figured out. I know it wasn't just because the current crime scene was missing some liquor; you were looking at the previous scenes as well, looking at the file and pictures and all the other robberies–which also tells me that you weren't reading it in the cab on the way there or else I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have had to be walked out the back door because you weren't in a proper state. So please just answer me: what did you figure out back there? What changed?" John gave him a hard stare, calling him on his bullshit before he even had a chance to start with any of it.

Sherlock knew he couldn't just ignore what John was saying because he was right, plain and simple. Lestrade would be calling soon (if he hadn't already and Sherlock had missed it while he was flying high in his mind palace) and the DI, and the rest of the Yard, would be pestering him for answers and information. Sherlock sighed and mindlessly mirrored John's earlier movements, dropping his head into his hands and shaking it before dragging his hands over his face and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"You're right, John, of course you are." Sherlock sighed and looked down, away from his friend, as he continued to speak. "Every scene, every location of the robberies, every item destroyed or taken, hidden or moved, every line and detail–all of it points to Marge–_**all of it**_. All of it points to our friendship, relationship, partnership–every single aspect of our relationship, including specific times and events–things that no one else _**can**_ know. Some are things that refer back to events, conversations, actions, events that all took place between myself and Marge–when no one else could _possibly_ be around or overhear. Private moments and conversations that I've never told anyone about and that I very highly doubt Marge ever did either. But I suppose that is still a possibility, but then again, the only other person whom she truly trusted other than me was Skip, and he was already dead when some of these things happened, so the perpetrator being someone Marge talked with is still ridiculously unlikely. But then again, so is this entire fucking mess that has somehow managed to send everything to hell in only a few days, so I suppose anything is completely fucking possible, isn't John?" Sherlock became more upset and agitated as he continued to talk and dwell on the complete clusterfuck the case, and his life, was turning out to be lately.

John didn't missed the cynicism creeping into Sherlock's voice as he spoke, instead cataloguing the moments when it started and seemed to spike. Which turned out to be when Sherlock began or was talking about having made no progress on the case and having no logical, plausible, leads whatsoever. _He's upset with his own failure_. John concluded to himself after a moment of contemplation. Someone else may have laughed at the conclusions implication of arrogance and vanity, but John wasn't just someone. No, he knew just how much it cut Sherlock to the quick when he failed, especially at something so obvious personal and close to home as this case was to the young detective.

"Like what?" John asked, his fatigue at the entire bloody situation starting to get to him and show through his own exterior.

"What do you mean 'like what'?" Sherlock looked up perplexed, not understanding his doctor's logical and not for the first time.

"What parts of your past with Marge did the various crime scenes and vandalism and evidence and whatnot represent? What parts of your life were they trying to bring up? You don't have to go into specifics, not yet, but I need something." John's eyes were tired, his back starting to ache from the stress of the day

"And what if I don't want you to know?" Sherlock viciously snapped back, his age-old defenses kicking right back into place and completely taking over. He was getting tired of the constant questions and being under so much observation, as ironic as he knew that was. But this was different; people were pissed when he pointed out an affair, but this–no…this could potentially ruin him, force him into some institution or asylum and Sherlock refused to give such a possibility even the slightest bit of perch in his life. Which meant keeping everyone, especially John, in the dark and the fuck out of his bloody business, regardless of what case, or whatever else, may be going on.

John, while he had been expecting some sort of outburst at some point, hadn't expected it so early into the conversation (or what he had thought/hoped would be fairly early in the conversation) and definitely not with so much bite and anger to it when he was still asking somewhat basic and shallow questions about what was going on. He knew this could go horribly wrong very quickly, so he tried his best to remain calm and keep a level head for the onslaught they both knew was coming.

"Sherlock, I'm just trying to help. I'm just trying to be there for you and take care of my best mate. Nothing more. I'm not trying to weed out every secret and bad memory I'm only trying to get the basics so that we can both better protect ourselves. That's all, _I promise you_, Sherlock, just that." John spoke quietly, but also with a firm, unyielding voice. And while his tone may have seemed supportive or comforting to some, to Sherlock it was condescending, as if he somehow didn't know just how high the stakes could be with this case– as if it had somehow evaded him as to just how dangerous this culprit was. So try as John might, he only seemed to send Sherlock into more of a defensive, vicious rage.

"_**Take care of me**__?_ I didn't realize I was some incompetent child who needed mummy and daddy to tuck me in at night and fight my goddamn battles for me. But I suppose you do know best, _Doctor Watson_. Yes, the battle-worn soldier that needed a flatmate because he couldn't handle being by himself or manage to get a decent surgery job after his discharge. The poor old soldier with the PTSD and psychosomatic limp–Yes! The perfect person to be taking care of someone!" Sherlock knew he was getting himself into deep shit with his friend (and probably soon to be ex-friend) but he couldn't stand the closeness, the potential to be found out because goddamn it, if someone was going to figure Sherlock out and expose him, it was going to be John Fucking Watson. So Sherlock needed to put a stop to all of it before it went any further, before anymore _sentiment_ or _feelings_ were involved. Which meant lighting an inferno to the bridge between them and running like hell from whatever devastation is left in its wake.

"And honestly, do you think you're any more special than any of the other hair-brain idiots like Donovan or Anderson or any of them that I have to deal with on a perpetual basis? _I mean really_, you're not any smarter or better than any of them so please do save yourself the trouble of pretending it to be any other way." Sherlock had become exceedingly animated until he was yelling and wildly gesturing with his hands. His eyes held a panic and fear in them that John had never seen up close–only ever far away, right before he had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. And to see it so clearly in this moment? So close? It chilled John so thoroughly he felt his heart might actually stop.

"Sherlock…I–I just want to help." John stuttered quietly, having no idea how to handle what was happening. At this point, he assumed he was aiming for damage control and simply trying to keep Sherlock in the room, because Lord help them both if he stormed off; John would probably go mad waiting for him to return from God knows where and doing God knows what.

"Did you ever _think_, dear _doctor_, that _**I don't want your fucking help?**_" Sherlock hissed, suddenly invading John's personal space and getting right in his face. John could feel the fury and rage rolling through his limbs and torso, but he wasn't stupid; He could see the barely contained fear and terror swimming in Sherlock's gorgeous pale eyes.

"Did you ever think that I don't _**care**_ whether or not you _**want**_ my help? That you're going to have it, regardless of whatever _tantrum_ or _trouble_ or deep shit you get yourself into?" John responded, finally starting to rise to Sherlock's bait. He was fiercely loyal, quick to see _and observe_, and extremely protective, all things that Sherlock should damn well bloody fucking know. And John was very quickly tiring of his antics and his blatant attempts to push John away with common, mundane defense mechanisms.

But John's response seemed to crack one of those very mechanisms.

Sherlock shoved himself away from John, a mad fear dancing wildly in his eyes. He quickly looked around the room before his eyes landed on his bedroom door. John caught this and stood to try and head off his flatmate as he rushed towards the door. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, saw this coming and merely stuck a hand out, pushing John away and into a lamp, causing it to go crashing to the floor. Sherlock broke through his doorway, slamming and locking his door before sliding down the door and cradling his head between his shaking knees.

_DammitdammitdammitGODFUCKINGDAMMIT! _Sherlock's chest seized and stuttered as he desperately tried to gasp in air. No mattered how hard he tried to push John away, he had a feeling that the former army doctor wasn't going to be budging anytime soon–at least not until it was too late, until everything was so thoroughly ruined and Sherlock was left completely decimated inside and out.

Until it all left him dead.

Because God knows that if John, his wonderful John, found out the truth and chose to leave him, he wouldn't last. He would kill himself. Of that, he had no doubt. Because if John, the perfect, caring, loving, loyal, amazing John Watson thought he was worthless and too much hassle and trouble and thought his body was as ugly as the detective did, and realize just how fucked up he truly was deep down–if he found out and left. Well then, Sherlock would know without any doubts that he was an abomination that wasn't worth the oxygen he was breathing.

And even the possibility of that, of John learning the truth and then leaving, caused him to fly towards his wall, ripping the picture from the wall and throwing it at the adjacent wall. He momentarily cringed as the glass shattered on impact but ignored it, instead turning his focus solely towards his lovely black box. He pulled it from its cubbyhole and tossed it on the bed behind him.

He grabbed it before rapidly moving to the floor and setting up _everything_.

He went for the cocaine first, shamelessly loading in as much as of the drug into the spoon as he knew the syringe could hold. He made ridiculously quick work of it, he ignored the belt choosing instead to simply shove the needle into the most prominent vein and depressing the plunging faster than he knew was safe for any fluid, let alone a potentially lethal drug.

He took a few moments to enjoy the fire rolling through his veins, but he also knew all hell was about to break loose within his body and mind as the full effects of the amount he just filled himself with began to kick in. Not to mention he was still slightly flying from his last injection. He slowly looked back up and grabbed his razor. He knew he couldn't go anywhere near his thighs so he chose his left arm, knowing that his dress shirts and jacket would easily cover them later.

He took a deep breath before digging the razor into the pale flesh of his arm. He let out a low moan as the pain joined the wave of relaxation and euphoria washing throughout his body. He took a moment to appreciate the warm trickle of blood running down his arm, only to hit the crook of his elbow and begin its downward descent onto the floor. There was a part of Sherlock's mind that knew he should be concerned with the bloodstains on the carpet, but another part kindly reminded him that he was Sherlock Holmes and he damn well knew how to get blood stains out of a bedroom carpet. And even if he didn't, it's not like he ever let anyone, even Mrs. Hudson and especially John, into his room in the first place. So he ignored the growing spot on the carpet and went back to his original task.

He rested the blade against his pale flesh once again, humming to himself as he pulled the edge across his skin in quick secessions until his forearm was littered with cuts and mars. The blood on the floor slowly became a puddle but Sherlock was too far gone in his chemically induced bliss to give a shit. He chose instead to continue humming, more specifically, Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake.

But before he reached the third movement, he began to feel exceedingly light headed. And it only took him one downward glance at his arm to know why: what had been a smallish puddle of blood was now a bit of a smallish pool.

Sherlock could feel the panic rising; the panic of bleeding out, but also the panic of John finding out, of having to go to John if he couldn't get the bleeding under control, of being found like this–strung out and so disgustingly self-mutilated and marred. The detective immediately grabbed a nearby shirt that he had clearly tossed aside on an earlier trip and pressed it firmly against the worse section of his arm, frantically trying to control the bleeding.

He took several deep breaths, wishing he hadn't taken so much cocaine, wishing he hadn't gotten so carried away with the razor. Wishing that John would be the one to stay but knowing that everything knowledge and experience had taught him was that John would never stay.

He held the shirt tightly against his arm as he cradled it to his body and as all the panic and the emotions and ideas it had brought up fully sunk in–being found out, being found out by John, being found dead like this. By John.

Sherlock began to cry. Mere tears rolling down his cheeks at first but soon the hopelessness of his situation, of his life in general, slowly overwhelmed and entrenched him, his very soul, in such a deep despair. One far greater than what he'd been entrapped by in a very long time.

As he sobbed into the shirt that was wrapped around his arm, the light-headedness deepened, until Sherlock felt himself gently, slowly, tip over. And even as he began to lose consciousness, he still couldn't stop the sobs and choked sounds coming from his chest as the pain continued its endless onslaught.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So yeah, I'm a horrible person, leaving you guys with such a dramatic cliff hanger and then taking forever and a half to update. Well, I'm even worse than that because, well, you'll see. Anyway, I love all of you wonderful readers (and don't worry, smut will be coming soon enough, I promise). Please R&R and enjoy!**

After another shitastic day at school and an even worse one at home, Sherlock found himself wandering back to the seedy part of London in search of the bizarre peace and companionship he had found the week before. As well as the sweet fire Marge had so graciously shared with him. Except this time he came prepared with a few hundred pounds and planned on getting however much of the delicious white powder he could.

He meandered his way down back alleyways and darkened streets of a map he had long since memorized until he saw a small fire in the distance. He gave a slight smile as he approached, recognizing several of the forms, Marge's included.

As he got closer, several of the people turned and acknowledged him, offer nods and waves which Sherlock shyly returned. Then he notice Marge turn and give him a wide grin and an enthusiastic wave.

"Oiy! It's the Magic Man! C'mon mate, join us!" She called cheerily, beckoning Sherlock to the empty space next to her. He gave her a genuine smile as he joined her, thankful for the warmth of the fire on the chilly autumn night. Sherlock was at a bit of a loss as to how to start a conversation with the intriguing creature next to him but she quickly solved the problem for him.

"So how've you been this week? I can see you're in a better mood than last week, but how's your week gone?" She looked over to him as he rubbed his gloved hands together over the lit barrel.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "How do you know I'm in a better mood? Maybe I'm just good at pretending." The teenage genius challenged as if he were a child instead. But Marge merely snorted and gave him an incredulous look.

"Oh please, mate, it's obvious. For one, you clearly planned your visit this time since it was just as bloody cold last week yet this time you have gloves and a scarf, which means you thought ahead and planned. Which also tells me last week was pretty much shit since you ran away from wherever it is you came from for whatever reason. And you actually smiled at me and some of the other guys as you walked up, when last week you just kinda stood there and pouted. See? You're not the only one that actually pays attention to shit." Marge smirked at Sherlock's open mouth, uping the ante on his original challenge. But Sherlock's mouth slowly closed and twisted upwards into a rare Cheshire grin.

"Fine, you are correct in your assumption that this week was better than last, but not by much, and it certainly had its worse moments. But yes, I am in a better mood. But you are not; you're saddened, though by what, I can't quite tell yet. But something also tells me that you may not wish me to know because it is of an extremely personal nature. Which is made clear by the fact that you just looked away from me and won't look me in the eye at current, which, from what I've seen of you and your personality, is indicative of something deeper and far more than say, a 'bad hair day' or missing the tube." Sherlock looked inquisitively at the young woman standing behind him, feeling a hint of what he knew to be concern bloom in his chest. This strange girl had been so kind and welcoming of him, leaving him no option but to feel at least some kind of kinship with her. And here she was, obviously upset over something Sherlock could probably deduce within a few seconds, no problem. And yet Sherlock didn't feel like even trying to deduce it because he, socially inept as he may be most of the time, could plainly see that she didn't want him to know. At least, not at that current moment in time. And some deeply hidden part of him respected that desire for privacy which he so quickly disregarded with so many others in the same situation.

Sherlock then acted on some deep rooted, far suppressed instinct, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him with slightly confused and very much guarded eyes. "Hey, I won't pry or anything. Even a complete moron like me can see that you don't want me to know. But if you do want to talk, I may not be much help in the way of advice, but I will listen. I promise. It's the least I can do for your kindness." Sherlock gave a soft, sincere smile which Marge returned before looking back towards the fire. She waited a few minutes, Sherlock's hand still gently resting on her shoulder, before turning back to him and speaking.

"It's Skip; we got into a fight earlier because I'm running a little shorter on cash and so is he so he can't cover for me for a while. But of course it being us, the argument over payment soon turned into a full-out yelling match and it got pretty damn nasty on both sides."

"And you're still upset over some of the things that were said, both hurt at some of the things he said to you and guilty over some of the things you said to him." Sherlock finished for her. She gave a weak nod in reply.

"Yeah, pretty much. And it bloody well sucks 'cause we normally get on so well and he's easily one of my best mates, drugs and sex aside. And I can't even do a couple of hits to take the edge off since I'm completely out and still don't have enough cash to cover another supply." Marge let out an annoyed and defeated huff, causing Sherlock to start laughing at her scrunched up facial expression. "Oiy! What are you laughing at?" Marge asked, quickly becoming pissed at being laughed at in such a way.

It took a moment for Sherlock to calm down and realize that he'd upset his friend. "No, no, I'm not laughing at your predicament or anything, just your face–" a face which he noticed becoming more pissed off as he continued to talk–"no, not like that! It's just, your expression, was kind of…well, um, adorable really. You looked like an upset puppy and I just couldn't help it. Look, I'm sorry if I upset you, I really didn't mean too. Please don't be mad at me; I swear I won't laugh at you again." By the time he had finished explaining his outburst, he looked positively contrite, leaving Marge no option but to smile, shake her head, and forgive the awkward guy standing in front of her.

"Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I can understand why you were laughing. I'm just a little moody, all things considered." Marge shrugged in acceptance of Sherlock's apology and in an apology of her own.

Sherlock looked around the circle for a moment before nervously turning back to Marge. "Well, I mean, common courtesy would demand that since you kindly shared some of your supply with me last week, it would only be polite for me to do the same this week. That is, of course, if Skip is making another round tonight and I have enough to cover some for the both of us, since I really don't know proper pricing and costs for this kind of thing and–" Sherlock was quickly cut off by Marge's finger on his lips, effectively silencing his nervous babble.

"That is a very sweet offer, especially around this part, and how much money did you bring? It's actually not that uncommon to not bring enough the first time or two you buy but I'm sure you can still get something." Marge gave him a large, sweet smile which he returned with a bit of a goofier lift to it.

"Oh, well, um, I brought around 700 quid and–"

"Christ, mate! Well, you're an exception to the newbie rule then." Marge let out a hearty laugh before seeing Sherlock's slightly confused look, which she made quick work to dispel. "Most new buyers bring around 100 pounds, which is only good for a handful of hits, if that. But 700 Definitely enough for a good stash. Speaking of which, where'd you come up with that kind of money in a week?" Marge had tilted her head to the side as she asked, truly intrigued as to how he had managed to scrounge up that kind of money in a week's time. Sherlock thought she looked truly adorable, quite _fetching_ really, when she titled her head in such a manner, and was again reminded of a loving puppy.

Sherlock smiled at her before answering, watching her slight movements and easily memorizing each one. "My parents are fairly well off; they're unlikely to notice it's missing, as are my brother and the various staff." Sherlock watched Marge's neck straighten and her eyes widen.

"What do you mean 'they won't notice'? _It's 700 pounds!_ And _staff_ How well of _is_ your family, exactly? And if you're so damn rich, what the hell are you doing down here in this filth with us?" Marge was truly shocked at Sherlock's answered, which he supposed he really shouldn't be; she _did_ have some valid points.

Sherlock sighed as he ran a hand through his shaggy mess of curls. "Well, I…I guess you'd say we're _very_ well off. Very _rich_. But they, my family, my peers–they…they don't like me. At all. Actually, they rather hate me. Most of them leave the room when I enter, if they can. Which I suppose is why I came out here last week; I–I just wanted to get away from them. Get away from their dirty looks, and all their cruel jokes and pranks, and I don't know–last week I just kind of started walking and I eventually found myself here. And for once in my miserable life, I wasn't scorned and turned away. Even when I started being a right ass. You guys…accepted me. You were welcoming…and, and _kind_. And _you_, _you_ were kind. _To me_. You didn't call me a 'freak' or, or a 'loser' or anything. You said I was _cool_ and I…I've just never had somebody tell me that before…" Sherlock finished with his voice no more than a whisper, his shoulders gently shaking from the emotions swirling within him; he had admitted just how much of an outcast he truly was, and even gone so far as to mention just how welcoming and friendly this group had seemed to him. Except that now all he could think about was how he was going to be cast aside yet again, too _posh_ and _high-class_ to be allowed into their circle. Sherlock felt his eyes start to well with tears as he braced himself for another rejection and dismissal.

But instead he was startled when he suddenly felt a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. He quickly realized it was Marge (obviously) and he was far too stunned to react for a few seconds. But then he started to realize just how…_nice_ it felt to be held, and he happily returned the gesture, tightly gripping the lithe form below him as shaky breaths wracked his body.

After a few minutes, Sherlock calmed and cautiously pulled back. "So, you're not mad at me?"

"Mad? Why the fuck would I be mad? Jealous, perhaps, but not mad, ya bloody idiot. No, if you want to be here, and you're not gonna nark on us, then you're welcomed here–even if you do come from a bunch of snotty bluebloods." Marge winked at him as a mischievous smile played across her lips. "And like I said, most newbies don't bring enough, so when one does, it tends to be a very…_appreciated_ gesture. So yeah, you should be fine there, Fern." Marge gave him another flirty wink before looking back over the fire and the group around it. Sherlock merely laughed at the nickname, knowing that there was nothing he could do to change it, even if he might want to. Which, for some unidentifiable reason, he really didn't want to. Because nicknames were something friends gave you. Well, and bullies. But this, Marge and her nicknames–her jokes and smiles and winks and _all of it_–Sherlock knew was sincere. Knew was _kind_. So he didn't question it, just smiled and lightly bumped his shoulder against hers.

They stood together, quietly bumping shoulders and laughing back and forth, for a while, until one of the guys on the opposite side of the barrel noted Skip approaching. The mood of the circle shifted, tension growing ever so slightly, and Sherlock immediately picked up on the difference from last week. Eyes downcast, averted, as Skip joined the circle. No one looked up, no one challenged, especially Marge, Sherlock noted somewhat concerned. It seemed as if everyone was trying their best not to move a muscle, to not even so much as breathe too heavily or blink in case it set something–_someone_–off. Everyone, except of course, Sherlock, who locked eyes with Skip and gave him a slight head nod, which only caused Skip to quirk an eyebrow. Marge, who saw the exchanged took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever may come, though desperately wishing nothing would.

And it seemed as if someone was listening to her silent plea that night as a smile broke across Skip's face. Sherlock's own mouth twitched up slightly in response before he made eye contact with Marge and gave her a playful wink. She heaved a sigh of relief, which didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock, before turning and giving Skip a small smile of her own. He shyly returned the smile, almost as if in apology for their earlier fight. And Marge accepted as she walked over to Skip and wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowing into his open coat for warmth and closeness.

Skip hugged her back before unwinding his arms for hers and clapping them together. "Alright mates! We got some business to get down to!" He reached into a messenger bag and pulled out a nondescript baggie, quickly tossing it to its new owner, who stepped forward and clasped Skip's hand, shaking it and discreetly passing him his payment, before turning and leaving the circle.

As Skip continued to handle the various business exchanges, Marge turned towards Sherlock and gave him a quizzical look, a light smirk playing at her lips. Sherlock held her gaze, giving her a lopsided grin in response to her unaired question as she moved from Skip's side to rejoin Sherlock.

"Alright hotshot, care to explain that little silent conversation you two were having?" Marge crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her hip slightly, playfully challenging the young genius in front of her. Sherlock couldn't help it as his gaze swept over her form, pausing momentarily on her chest, before continuing the rest of its journey. Marge caught this and lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing as she waited for his no doubt brilliant answer.

Except it wasn't quite the "brilliant, calculated move" she was expecting.

Sherlock looked at the fire, absent-mindedly scratching his head. "Honestly? I guess I just didn't feel like bowing down to him because he was being a bit of a stuck-up sod. I wasn't going to let him try and intimidate me because his knickers were in a bunch. And I suppose that some part of him respected that–or some boring macho-male equivalent. Besides, it was obvious his 'bad mood' was more stress and frustration related than anything actually malevolent." The future detective shrugged away both his actions and explanation as he looked back towards Marge.

The nimble pixie in front of him snorted in response, which quickly led to chuckles, which immediately gave way to her laughing hysterically, almost being doubled over at one point. Sherlock, as well as Skip and many of the others who were gathered around the fire, gave her a positively bewildered look. Skip made eye contact with Sherlock, a silent question passing between them, to which Sherlock helplessly shrugged. He was forced to wait several minutes before Marge seemed to regain control of her facilities, wiping tears from the corners of her lovely copper eyes.

"Um, would you mind explaining this time?" Sherlock asked cautiously, as if worried about setting her off with yet another seizure of laughter.

"You!" She replied, giggling and shaking her head.

"Again, care to explain why I apparently caused you to break out in a small fit of hysteria?"

"Your answer! It was so…I don't know, it was just such a _guy thing_ to do! You, with all your genius and money and observations and deductions and yet you're _still_ just one of the guys! And yeah, that just seemed way too _simple_ and _common_ for someone like you." Marge had finally calmed down enough to get through her explanation without having to gasp for breath or clutch at her now aching abdomen.

"'Someone like me'?" Sherlock asked, yet again feeling his chest clench at the obvious set up for rejection and mockery. He couldn't help but remember the endlessly many times the phrase "someone like you" had been throw at him so heavily laced with scorn, disgust, and viciousness. He unconsciously tensed as Marge continued to smile, as if preparing to bolt should his years of social interactions and conditioning prove to be right yet again.

"You know, someone all posh and refined and _sophisticated_. And, I mean, I may not be as good as you at observing but I can still pick up on quite a few things that are a little deeper that just that; it's pretty damn obvious you're almost completely closed off–which does make me sad because you seem like a genuinely good guy–and it's also pretty bloody obvious you try not to show too much of what goes on beneath the surface of that pale skin. So yeah, that kind of…_basic_, almost straight up _emotional_ display of defiance and just 'go-fuck-yourself' attitude towards Skip was kinda fucking surprising, is all." It was Marge's turn to shrugged off her actions and explanation as Sherlock simply stared at the person–_the friend_–before him.

Sherlock was truly speechless for a reason he couldn't quite identify; this person, who had only met him twice, seemed to not only _like_ him–which was a miracle in and of itself– but also _care about him_ and enjoy his company and appreciate his abilities and offered him something he hadn't really considered an option before: _friendship_. And that one word alone caused his heart to seize so strongly and firmly that he thought it might actually do physical damage. It caused him to consider the possibility that maybe everyone _didn't_ hate him (just most, he wasn't that naively hopeful and optimistic). And it made him realize that sometimes it was nice to interact with people, pleasant even.

After a few moments of stunned silence on Sherlock's part and a bit of concerned intrigued on Marge's, Sherlock looked at the ground and awkwardly shuffled his feet as if he were once again a young school boy. He paused one last time before looking back at Marge, his eyes noticeably wet with uncast tears and emotions.

"Thank you." Was all he whispered, obviously too unsettled by his current flood of emotions to do or say much more. And Marge understood that state very well. She stepped forward, ignoring Skip and all the others around the fire, and hugged Sherlock, offering him comfort and a shield should his emotions carry him much farther towards the edge of breakdown.

"Hey, let me see the cash you brought and I'll go see what stuff Skip has and then what do you say we skip out and go somewhere else?" She questioned tenderly as she pulled back enough to catch Sherlock's eye. When she did, he hesitated only slightly before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He removed the notes and went to give them to Marge but she held up her hand and shook her head.

"No, just let me see how much you have–or are willing to spend–and then I'll go talk to Skip. You guys can do any actual exchanging but I don't want to be anymore than a messenger; things get messy when things start passing between too many hands." Sherlock nodded as Marge quickly counted the bills in front of her before turning and walking towards Skip on the other side of the circle. Skip watched her curiously as she came over, eyes darting between her and Sherlock and asking a series of silent questions only Marge could hear.

When she reached him, they quickly exchanged words, apologies, and short negotiations, Skip nodded and indicated for her to wait a moment. She simply shrugged in reply and made her way back over to Sherlock. She smiled as she approached and Sherlock couldn't help but dorkily return the grin.

"So, I'd say we're pretty set with how many quid you brought."

"Oh? And how 'set' would that be?" Sherlock couldn't help but tease her and knowing, even with his minimal amount of social experience, that he was bordering on flirting with the woman before him. Realizing this caused him to pause for a moment, remembering the reference to her being in a _relationship_ with a _drug dealer_ and even with his very limited life experience, he knew that entering into that kind of territory could end very, very badly.

And Marge seemed to sense this sudden shift in mood.

"Hey, hey, look at me. What's wrong? Change your mind? Because that's fine, you don't have to buy anything, you don't own me anything for last time, okay? Hey, what's going on in that head of yours?" Marge raised her hand to Sherlock's cheek, but he flinched away, having no real idea as to how such actions and signs of affection would be taken by an outside party.

But then Sherlock saw the hurt flicker through Marge's eyes. "No, I'm, I'm sorry, I just…I thought you were with Skip and I don't want to cause any problems between you two. I know you said earlier that you two had fought but I also thought that part of your exchange a moment ago was also an apology…or something of that nature and I…I just don't want to get stuck in the middle of something like that and end up hurting you or…"

"Or hurting yourself." Marge finished quietly. Sherlock gave a small, nervous nod which only caused Marge to huff out a frustrated breath. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I should've made things a lot clearer. Or at least, as clear as they ever are around here. Yes, Skip and I are 'together', but it's nothing…_exclusive_. I mean, yeah, he's the one I go to after a bad day and yeah, we have sex on occasion, but we've never made a commitment to stay 'faithful' to each other or anything like that. Honestly, we're just really close friends that have some really nice benefits. We're both free to talk to, and flirt with, and date, and see, and sleep with, and _whatever_ with _whoever_ we want. So when I say that we should head somewhere and ditch this group, _it's okay_. Skip's not gonna go all mobster on you for stealing his gal or something like that. No, we're free to do whatever we want, Sherlock, including just walking along the Thames and grabbing a bite if that's all you want to do." Marge gave him a kind, reassuring smile that he slowly returned in full.

"Actually, I do think I'd like that. Very much. As well as some more product from Skip." Sherlock simply grinned down at Marge before noticing Skip heading towards them. Sherlock nodded his head in greeting as Skip joined them, offering Skip and Marge a cigarette before lighting his own.

"So, Sherlock was it?" Skip asked as Sherlock lit his, and Marge's, cigarettes. Skip took several slow drags and calmly looked Sherlock over, silently sizing up this newcomer as he hadn't been able to do the previous week.

"Yes, and you're Skip. You seem to dabble in a bit of everything, which, even with my limited knowledge on all of this, I know is quite unusual; most dealers choose one or two drugs to deal in, lowering the risk of getting caught and lowering the resulting jail time when they do get caught. So my curiosity begs me to ask: why deal in such a variety? Why not the typical one or two main drugs?" Marge tensed slightly, which Sherlock was keen to notice, but which he also chose to ignore at that moment. He had already proven himself willing to hold his own and be bluntly honest, yet unwilling and uncaring to actually challenge the thoroughly established pecking order.

Skip tilted his head as his eyebrows knit together, but soon enough he shook his head and chuckled. "My, my…You are a new breed, my friend. And that's not the first time I've gotten that question, the answer to which is this, mate: I may be the guy doing the transactions, but I'm not the head-honcho, only one of any number of guys that do the actual dealing. We all have our given…area of retail with specific clients. And I know it seems really muddled and pretty bloody easy to get caught but damn, he's got it worked out–we only deal with a certain number of people, who usually only have certain habits, so we're only responsible for them. Hell, I only know 2 of the other dealers and I know there are at least 20 total throughout central England. And for the drugs themselves, we get what we need to do business, nothing more. For every dealer the big guy has, he easily has 1 to 2 manufacturers making the drugs and getting them to him. I have to admit, for a supposedly "low-class criminal" that they always make us out to be, the big guy has one hell of a ring going. But yeah, that's why I deal in so many…areas of indulgence; I get my orders from upstairs to work a certain part of town and part of that includes wiping out all the other drug competition, which means selling whatever people are needing in that specific area. Answer your question, Curious?" Skip smirked at Sherlock, watching as he processed this new information, and mistakenly thinking the look on his face was one of bafflement, instead of the analytical processing and filing of information that was actually going on.

"Look mate, I know it's kind of complicated, sorry if it all went over your head. Anyway, were you wanting something tonight or–"

"If there are so many middlemen, from dealers to manufacturers, as well as your basic runner and mule and, of course, security for wherever everything gets stored before disbursement, and general informants on the ground to make sure the police haven't caught on, then how can any profits be made? It seems as if someone is getting undercut at some point in all of this. And yet, that begs the question of who? In a world of illegal underground, it seems that you really wouldn't want to piss out your informants or security, lest they turn on you. And of course you can't cheat the manufacturers because then where else are you going to get the drugs that wouldn't cause a drastic increase in price anyway? For mules and runners, well, if nothing else you'd have to pay whatever it would cost to keep them under the radar, which would most likely include food and shelter to avoid them ending up at a homeless shelter or an ER with drugs on them. And of course the 'head-honcho' will take more than his fair share because why else run an elaborate illegal drug ring? Which leaves the dealers. Tell me, are you sure that you're getting a fair cut? Because it seems to me that you and yours would be the easiest to 'screw over'." Sherlock's eyes finally slowed in their rapid fire motion back and forth as he read out the information playing across his mind. He angled his head slightly, somewhat concerned about his almost friend, the drug dealer. But he also knew that if Skip was getting the short stick, it meant so was Marge since it was obvious to any number of people that Marge relied heavily on Skip in many ways, including those of shelter, food, and other basic necessities.

Skip simply stared at him, opening and closing his mouth as it was his turn to try and process the barrage of information and logic. He flicked his stub of a cigarette to dirt beneath him and ground it out with his shoe as he rubbed his chin. "Bloody hell mate, I've never thought about that. Shit, you're probably right." Skip shook his head and let out a self-defeating sigh, "Oh well, it pays the bills and helps us get by when we wouldn't have a shot in hell of surviving otherwise. Anyway, were you wanting some of my overpriced, middleman coke, or no?" Skip smirked as he waited for the newcomer's answer.

Sherlock spared an unsure glance at Marge, who rolled her eyes and promptly took over for the newbie. She reached into Sherlock's pocket, pulling out his wallet and subsequent cash. She pulled out two 100 pound notes and stuffed them back into Sherlock's wallet before counting out the rest in front of Skip, who could only raise his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yeah, we'll take however much this'll buy with what you've got on you." Marge gave Skip a deviant, almost sultry, smile as she handed the cash to him, noting Sherlock's confused look. "Hey counting out and handing over the money with both of you standing there is not the same as running back and forth between the two of you with it." Marge pointed a light-hearted finger at Sherlock who merely raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Marge started laughing at the gesture and was quickly joined by Sherlock. Skip chuckled along with their antics as he counted out the money himself and reached into one of the inner pockets of his messenger bag. As Marge and Sherlock began to quiet down, Skip produced a baggie of fine white powder.

"And this should be about right." Skip grinned at them, giving Marge a knowing wink to which she simply shrugged. "Try not to use up too much of the poor boy's new stash." With that he handed over the baggie and shook Sherlock's hand. Marge leaned over and kissed Marge on the cheek, causing the young woman to blush and give Sherlock an embarrassed look. "See you around love." Skip gave one last parting pat on Sherlock's shoulder before heading off to finish his nightly rounds.

Sherlock looked at the baggie, not having the slightest idea how to proceed. Marge noticed and rolled her eyes. "Come on, mate, I know this perfect place we could go." Marge quickly linked her arm through his, discreetly slipping the baggie into her purse with a wink, both of them knowing that Sherlock had no place to conceal the illicit substance.

"Well then, I defer to your good judgment. Lead the way, m'lady." Sherlock flirted, obviously choosing to overdo it ever so just to get them laughing and moving.

Marge could only continue to roll her eyes. "God help you, Fern. God help you…" Marge laughed as she led them away from the group and fire, waving over their backs as they departed. They walked up towards the street and started heading South, Marge leading the way and the conversation, which was something Sherlock was very much not used too yet he soon found out, it was also something he was very okay with, at least with this wonderful creature beside him.


End file.
